


Mr Ecks and Mr Wye

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas, Girl From Uncle, Hogan's Heroes, Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 13:55:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14620053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: The report of the deaths of Mr. Ecks and Mr. Wye were slightly premature, and their adventures, and perhaps a new life, are just beginning.   I own none of the characters, make no money from telling their stories, am just pleased to have the opportunity to do so.





	1. Fathers and Uncles

Alexander Waverly had a headache. It wasn't like he didn't have more than enough reasons to have a headache, he thought as he looked at the files on the side of his desk, files indicating Thrush activity, world uprisings and disasters, Julius Cutter from the Survival School giving him more grief than he really wanted about that latest trainee Waverly had rejected, not to mention that last communique from Thrush leader Victor Marton currently playing on the side screen, cryptic and amused all at once. "My sincere congratulations, my old friend, on the latest triumph of your brilliant agents. They have absolutely outdone themselves this time, and proved themselves perhaps the finest jewels in Mr. Cutter's crown of accomplishments. Please be sure to give him my compliments when you speak to him next. I'll have to send you a box of cigars in appreciation for the amusement I have experienced, and expect to continue to enjoy for some time." The words had been brief, but the expression on Victor Marton's face had been genuinely amused, if not even more.

As the image clicked off the screen, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin risked a fast glance at each other, wondering if the other knew something about this. They hadn't had much time to talk that morning when they got back, from Nepal and Paris respectively. Their eyes told their partner that, no, they didn't have a clue what the Thrush leader was talking about.

The pile of weapons in the center of the big round table was impressive, several knives, some what appeared to be throwing stars, four leather sheaths holding a number of 3" blades with rounded shafts, and a few oddments that they couldn't identify without a closer look; next to that pile, there were two oversized paperback books, one regular sized, a couple of thin notebooks, a thin paperclipped stack of sheet music, a couple of candy bars, a open bag of hard candies, ink pens, six marbles, some elastic bands, and other assorted items as well.

Alexander Waverly took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh.

"It seems our Mr. Davenport and Mr. Collins apprehended the coded message they were sent out to get, but ran into a bit of a problem. It was stolen from them."

Solo frowned, "Thrush?"

"It would appear so. They gave pursuit, but ran into some trouble via a group of Innocents. They will both join us as soon as they finish in Medical. They were not too badly injured. This is all most embarrassing, I must say. I doubt Mr. Marton will let us forget this for some time."

Kuryakin kept the stoic look on his face, though the word embarrassing seemed to indicate something not so terribly serious as some that might have been used; still, he knew that piece of coded information had been vital to one of the ongoing missions. Waverly keyed the intercom on his desk, "Miss Rogers, please have them sent in, and we should be expecting Mr. Davenport and Mr. Collins shortly; when they arrive, send them in as well." 

Kuryakin and Solo turned in their chairs to see four young people escorted into the room by Lisa Rogers. Lisa was trying to maintain the cool composure expected of Waverly's secretary, though not too successfully, and the two male members of the group weren't helping. One, a short blond with sparkling green eyes was obviously trying to charm her and just as obviously succeeding, and the taller one, who had dark brown hair and blue-green eyes was trying to outdo him. In thanking her for her courtesy, the blond bestowed a practiced light kiss on the back of her hand in a very polished Continental fashion, the dark one pulling her hand into almost a handshake, before turning it gently and almost cradled to his chest so he was holding it in a rather intimate fashion as his lips touched her fingers ever so gently. Both of them were displaying beguiling and seductive smiles that could honestly put both Kuryakin and Solo's best efforts to shame in a skillful display of confident masculine promise. There was so MUCH confident masculine promise that the whole effect was slightly disturbing to the other men in the room, probably because, if Napoleon had to guess, he would guess the two of them to be in their early mid-teens, at the very most.

The two females accompanying them were in the same age range, and were just looking at the interaction with complacent, slightly amused interest. Napoleon decided to do a little charming of his own and gave his best smile at the two of them, only to be brought up cold as he caught their attention and their expressions changed to something quite different, haughty and icy appraisal, flicking up and down his rather elegantly and carefully attired person and dismissing him, obviously, as being unworthy of their regard. Rather taken aback, that not being his usual experience with any female, he watched as their attention moved to his partner, and while the dismissal wasn't quite so quick, still there was no approval or warmth in their eyes.

Mr Waverly gave an irritated hurrmmph and brought everyone's attention back to him. "Yes, well, if you would have a seat, we'll see what we can do about straightening all of this out," he rumbled in an impatient growl, glancing down at the file in front of him, and another quick look at that pile of weapons, motioning toward some vacant seats with one hand.

He looked up in some surprise to see him being surveyed with cool reserve by the still standing four. One of the females, the perhaps slightly older one, now gave him the same kind of look she'd given the two senior agents.

"You'd be Alexander Waverly, then, I'm supposing, the one Miss Rogers says is in charge around here?" The raised brow, dignified look was impressive, especially on someone of her age.

"I am Alexander Waverly; you may call me Mr. Waverly."

A slight smile twitched at her face, her thoughts easily read as something along the lines of, "Aye, well, I suppose I could, if I were a mind to."

That got her a frown from the head of UNCLE, New York Office, and raised brows from the two senior agents; they weren't accustomed to seeing anyone be quite that offhand with the stern leader, including many heads of nations and military generals. The looks on the other three youngsters didn't indicate anything other than polite attentiveness, but somehow Solo thought they might be more amused than anything else.

Waverly cleared his throat, "Yes, well. It is my understanding that you four were somehow involved in a rather unfortunate episode with two of my, em, employees." He frowned severely, "because of that interaction, they were unable . . ." and he paused to look up as the door slid open, revealing a rather battered Charles Davenport and an even more so Jeffrey Collins.

The two stepped in and Davenport gave a respectful, "Mr. Waverly, sir." and Collins echo'd him, "Mr Waverly". Waverly cast a superior look at the redhead facing him, as if to say, 'see, that's how it's done,' but that only resulted in a slight moue on her lips, and her one brow quirked high, answering him silently, 'oh? Really?'

The two newcomers gave the four standing youngersters a look that started out angry and annoyed, and Davenport moved aggressively forward two quick steps, but Kuryakin was rather impressed that all that did was cause the four to easily and automatically adjust their positions and stance. Now, easily braced, feet slightly apart, arms at ease and ready at their sides, they were in a slightly tilted diamond formation, front and back points facing all of the other men in the room, the two on either side at an angle, seemingly on the lookout for any currently unseen opponents at the rear or sides. That gave the two senior agents another reason to exchange looks; that was a very smooth, very professional move, hardly what you'd expect from youngsters of this age. 

Another clearing of his throat brought attention back to Waverly, to see his frown. "Gentlemen, please take your seats. And you four, I will not compell you, but it would be easier to have this discussion if you were seated as well," he offered rather grudgingly.

A quick look between the young female and the others, and she nodded. Kuryakin thought it looked rather like royalty bestowing a favor, all gracious and regal. Their eyes had already noted the pile of weapons, and Solo could see them calculating the distance. He swallowed a smile, thinking {"this should be interesting."}

They took a good measuring look at the chairs, almost as if they were expecting straps and chains to magically appear, and Napoleon Solo caught himself smiling again, this one more sincere, and reassured them, "no straps, no restraints hidden in these; we're UNCLE, not THRUSH, and this is hardly a B movie."

Waverly gave another of those little noises, "well, no, of course not, nothing like that. Do sit down."

Two of the four sat, the taller boy and the girl who had taken the lead merely perched on one arm of the chair occupied by the others. Obviously, blind trust was not a strong part of their makeup.

He bent his head toward the intercom, "Miss Rogers, coffee for five if you would be so kind, and something for our guests. . ." looking toward the four 'visitors' in uncertainty.

"Tea for us, preferably White Darjeeling, or second-flush Oolong if you haven't the first; that is, if you have anyone who knows how to brew it properly. Otherwise, nothing, thank you."

Miss Rogers, now at the door, suppressed a grin at that calm request, "of course; the White Darjeeling is a favorite of Mr. Waverly's. Lemon, milk, sugar?" watching the expression of mock horror touch those faces; yes, it was almost hidden, but visible, and Kuryakin thought it was all meant to be viewed just that way, {"performance art, calculated down to the tiniest flicker of expression and tone. Interesting."}

"In Darjeeling?" The taller boy shot a quick glance at Waverly, as if wondering what kind of a barbarian would use any of that with that particular tea. "Thank you but no."

Waverly looked at the four, finding himself rather out of his comfort zone if not out of his depth. "I would have expected perhaps a request for some of those soft drinks that seem to be quite popular with the young people today."

The shorter of the two males leaned back in the chair, head tipped back so he was looking at them through long blond lashes, raised one brow and gave a cheeky grin, "too easy to 'ide a dose in those, ya know, just like with the coffee, even some a the 'eavier teas. The Darj, now, that's light enough would take something really special to slip in and a body not take notice."

His accent was decidedly Cockney, and there was nothing of modesty or humility in either his tone or his face, pure cock-robin he was. Solo made a note to himself about the teas; while he wasn't a tea drinker, that just might come in handy some day when he was in uncertain company. He frowned slightly to himself, and looked over at his partner. In Russian, he asked "does he remind you of anyone in particular, Illya, or is it my imagination?" Illya responded, "far too much, but I hadn't thought it likely . . ."

A slow turn of the head and serene gaze from the four youngsters led Napoleon to the uneasy thought that those words had possibly been as well understood as if he'd spoken in English. Napoleon cleared his throat, "perhaps introductions are in order. I am Napoleon Solo, this is my partner Illya Kuryakin."

That caused the serene contemplation on the perhaps slightly younger girl's face to change with a flurried blink, now an abrupt stare, but there was no readable expression in her face, just the looking, just the taking note. Napoleon wondered, but decided it was just the unfamiliar Russian name that had caught her attention; well, his own was rather noteworthy itself, he would be the first to admit.

"You've met Mr. Waverly, and I believe you've also, uh, met Mr. Davenport and Mr. Collins. And you would be?"

The smaller boy spoke up, "O'Donnell's the name, for all of us. In order of oldest down, I'm Randy, that's my cousins Jamie and Louisa, and my sister M'Coury. And yes, we've met your Mr. Davenport and Collins; ruddy rude they were, the pair of them. Almost knocked M'Coury flying they did, and tried to shove Jamie outta the way too. Manners, Mr. Waverly, they don't go amiss even in today's busy world, you know, or so our mum tells us."

That last was said sternly, but with a face that showed more than a little aloof amusement. Again Napoleon and Illya had a bit of a shiver, the look on the boy's face was disturbingly familiar.

M'Coury was watching their faces, particularly the Russian's, wondering {"is he remembering? And if he is, what is he feeling about that moment? I'd be some interested in knowing that,"} and she kept her face in its calm mask, but with more than a little difficulty. She knew if she spoke right then, her voice would have a bit of a snarl, maybe a trace of a hiss behind the words.

Alexander Waverly was starting to wonder if anyone would notice if he broached the brandy decanter sitting on the sidebar; perhaps that would ease his headache.

Davenport flushed deeply, "They were in the way, we couldn't get through them and the Thrush agent was on the other side and gone. We lost him, while we were scuffling with these little . . ." and Colllins, seated beside him, really wished his cohort would just shut up. He couldn't see pointing out that they'd been scuffling with these kids would help their situation, especially since the kids had come out on top. He didn't even want to think about what Julius Cutter would say! Next thing you know, Davenport was going to point out 'it was two against four!'.

"Well, perhaps your injuries . . ." Napoleon started, but the deep flush on each of the agents faces confirmed what he was unwilling to believe but starting to suspect; the two hadn't BEEN injured before that little scuffle. He took a fast look at that pile of weapons and assorted miscellaney on the table and hid a grin, though glanced over to see his amusement was shared by his partner.

Waverly was just looking slightly disgusted. Somehow, the picture of two grown UNCLE agents being thwarted by four young teenagers was just embarrassing, and using these kids as an excuse in front of their boss and the two senior Section II agents even more so. Perhaps the fact that the kids were hardly rumpled and the agents obviously the worst for wear didn't help.

"Quite so, Mr. Davenport. And do you have no idea where that Thrush agent went?"

"No, he grabbed the envelope as the exchange was being made, and just took off," Collins interjected.

A discreet clearing of a throat brought the attention back to the youngsters, the taller boy asking, casually, "and just w'at was so important about this mysterious envelope, if I might be so bold as to inquire?"

"That's hardly your concern, young man," Waverly said with a frown, getting only a disinterested shrub in return.

"W'at ever ya say, gov," the Cockney accent on this one showing more strongly now. The accents of the two boys were different, showing perhaps different influences but still showed a strong regional common denominator.

The smaller boy squinted at them and pulled out an UNCLE communicator from somewhere on his person, "don't mind if we make a call, do ya then? Need to check in," and in one brisk movement was now sitting balanced on the back of the chair, legs crossed at the ankles, totally at ease. Every agent grabbed for their pocket, searching for their own. Collins flushed as he realized the silver 'pen' in the hands of the youngster was probably his, and acknowledged that with a reluctant nod at his superior. Somehow, he didn't want to look at his partner to see what expression might be on that already livid face.

"Unfortunately, that will not be as helpful as you might think, young man. You see, that only reaches . . . " and Alexander Waverly froze in disbelief when, as a response to the boy saying "anyone up and about then?" a voice came through loud and clear, "ei and just w'at are you up to now? Supposed to be back at the 'otel 'ours ago. You comin back on your own, or do we stop by that ruddy tailor shop and collect you on our way to this Met place I'm told we're 'eaded for?"

The young man smirked broadly, "can't say, da. Best let you talk to the man w'at seems to be in charge," handing over the open communicator to the girl seated on the arm of his chair with another of those smiles like he'd been giving Lisa Rogers, but this one more sincere. She rolled her eyes at him, took it as she stood up, the boy easily rebalancing as her weight was removed from the equation, and walked it over to hand to the older British man at the table.

Waverly had quickly moved to close his jaw and tried to resume his accustomed air of dignity. "Ahem, this is Alexander Waverly. Am I to assume these are your youngsters? We would be pleased to release them to you, of course, but there are some questions we are trying to ascertain the answers to, and they are not being particularly forthcoming, Mr. . . ?"

A breezy reply came over the pen, "Just call me Goniff, mate! No need for formality, now is there? Tell you w'at; we'll be there in a tick and see if we can't straighten this all out," and the communicator went dead.

"Want me to twiddle that back to where it was?" came the offer, accompanied by a surprisingly innocent look.

"Ah, no thank you, I believe we can manage," and got a cheerful shrug, "suit yourself; you should probably get your blokes to take another look at that, you know. Any idea 'ow easy it was to mess with the insides? Your Thrushies'd 'ave a field day tampering with your 'private' conversations, they catch on to that. All kinds a mischief they could get up to."

Waverly shot a fast look at Illya Kuryakin, the techie of the group, and the frown on the Russian's face said it all. "Perhaps you might share your insights with Mr. Kuryakin before you leave," Waverly ground out between teeth clenched tightly around the stem of his pipe.

"Glad to, no problem at all," came complete with an expansive wave of a graceful hand, and his other three companions rolled their eyes, and the older girl couldn't refrain from a low gurgle of amusement. Randy truly WAS one of her favorite cousins, in fact, one of her favorite people in general.

"Am I correct, young man, that was your father on the line?"

"Well, some might say," was the only reply, which wasn't any more cut and dry than anything else they'd gotten out of this foursome. 

Waverly felt his temples pound in time with his heartbeat; this was going to be a very long day.

The tea arrived, along with the coffee, and there was a brief silence while everyone took a sip or two, which broke only when the girl who'd actually been seated in a chair, stood up and started to pull the stack of weapons and varied and sundry other items toward her. The move had obviously been expected, for the tall boy seated on the arm of her chair stood gracefully just at the right moment.

"Perhaps that should wait til your family arrives; that can all go into their custody," and she looked at Waverly impudently, "could, but might as well save the time, you know. Figure you'll all be wanting to talk some, then I expect they'll want us to be on our way; might as well sort this out now as later; not like they'll want us out and about without it all being back in place, you know," as she quickly separated the items into four stacks, and the others started to tuck things back where ever they belonged.

Davenport stood up and snarled at them, "Mr. Waverly said leave it alone!" Well, actually Mr. Waverly hadn't said anything of the sort, though he might have implied it, and the looks from the other men should have told him just how odd his reaction had been.

"Don't get your feathers all in a twit, now. Aint like you're in any danger, you know. Well, no more than before. Didn't use any of that to take you and your partner down then; wouldn't need any of it now," came in a remarkably calm voice from the one called Jamie, now back in his original position.

Davenport leaned forward, aggression showing clear in his posture, "we were trying not to hurt you, you little bastard!"

Little sounds of amusement came from all four, though Jamie had eased off his seat on the chair arm to stand slightly away, his hands clasped behind him. "Well, I can release you from that restraint, if ye like, 'ave an educational round or two? No cost for the lesson, mind you, all free of charge," and the look in those blue-green eyes was chilly and totally self-assured.

Napoleon thought to himself, {"whatever or whoever they are, they sure aren't lacking in confidence."} He wasn't impressed with Davenport and his lack of control, and he doubted their superior was either.

Waverly snapped out, "Mr. Davenport! Sit down and control yourself. I don't intend to have any brawling in my office, do I make myself clear??!"

The younger girl, now finished with tucking her own possessions away neatly, piped up, all innocent helpfulness, "perhaps you have someplace more suited? A work-out area, perhaps, with mats? And if you prefer it not be Jamie, him being the biggest, well, any one of us, myself included, would be willing to work up a bit of a sweat to oblige your man. Anyone that anxious to learn a new thing or two shouldn't be discouraged, you know." The looks in her direction ranged from total disbelief to wry amusement.

"Well, I'd suggest you chose someone other than M'Coury, if you go that route," came in a matter of fact voice from the small blond boy; "bites, she does, and none too particular about where she latches on. Not with family, acourse, but with others she tends not to give much leaway. At least, best wear a cup; better chance of coming out in one piece," all that stated in a totally inappropriate cheerful voice.

"And no fun you are, Randy, like you don't have a few surprises of your own in the tussle!" the girl mock pouted, her grin bearing a remarkable similarity to his. Again, the girl's eyes flickered over to Illya, and something about that cool considering stare made both him and his partner just a little uncomfortable. 

Lisa Rogers interruped with the news that there were three people in the reception area to meet with Mr. Waverly, saying they were expected in regard to Waverly's 'visitors'. He harrumphed and told her to have them escorted up. When the door opened, a woman with dark red hair strode in, accompanied by two blond men, one taller with bright green eyes, one shorter with hazy blue eyes. The rapid, bouncy way the shorter man moved was quite familiar, the smaller boy having shown them his own version of it.

Solo and Kuryakin surged to their feet, reaching for their weapons, Waverly instinctively starting to reach for the security button. Davenport and Collins looked confused, but followed the senior agents' lead. Their activity got them a puzzled look from the three, no immediate signs of recognition, especially in the shorter man who SHOULD have recognized at least Solo and Kuryakin quite well. At a word from Waverly the agents retook their seats, but kept their weapons at hand.

The woman surveyed the room carefully, but without any apparent apprehension. "You have been amusing yourselves, have you, loves? Anything we need to know, any tabs we need to settle? And I think I might prefer to see you using the seat of that chair for what it was intended, Randy." That caused the blond boy to uncross his legs and pop down into the chair at once, not seeming discommoded by the mild admonishment, the girl perched on the arm swaying comfortably and easily with the shift.

"Na, not so much, mum. Mr. Waverly and 'is lot, most 'ospitable, you know. Course, didn't start off that way, but no 'arm done, not to our side anyways. Got a right nice cuppa outta it, we did. Miss Rogers there knows 'ow to brew it up just right," came a breezy reply, with a cheerful and pleasant nod to the UNCLE secretary.

"Well, then," the redhead smiled at him, affection deep in her eyes, "that's fine then. And our thanks, Miss Rogers, for your kindness," getting an amused smile and a chuckling, "oh, it was my pleasure!"

Randy continued on, "over there, that's Mr. Napoleon Solo and Mr. Illya Kuryakin; those two, Mr. Davenport and Mr. Collins - never got their first names."

The taller blond man stepped forward, "Mr Waverly, I'm Craig Garrison, this is Goniff Grainger, and Meghada O'Donnell. You seem to be in possession of our son and daughter, and also our niece and nephew. We can take these four off your hands now, if you're finished?"

Goniff was looking over the four carefully, checking for any signs of damage despite Randy's reassurances, looking even more carefully at his daughter, trying to read what was going on behind those brown eyes; his voice, though, was brisk and matter-of-fact, not revealing his apprehension; "got your belongings, do you? Don't want to leave anything behind, now," and they all nodded back at him with a look of respect quite different than any the UNCLE men had received.

Louisa answered, "Aye, got everything back in order. But seems they're missing an envelope. Two of their men were picking it up, and another man, a Thrushie I think they said, snatched it away and took off with it. Those two," nodding over at Davenport and Collins, "were all upset because we were between them and their Thrushie, and it was all a bit of a tangle and a tussle when they collided with M'Coury and started pushing at Jamie. We've asked what was so important about that bit of paper, but no one's answered." The look she gave Goniff was quietly serene and somehow meaningful.

Garrison turned back to Waverly, "an envelope, Mr. Waverly? Something important, perhaps. Like before?"

Waverly harrumphed, and took a puff on his pipe, "Yes, Mr. Garrison, very much like before. And yes, sir, I do remember you; you were Lieutenant Garrison then, I believe. France, wasn't it, the last year of the war?"

Garrison smiled more broadly, "yes, I believe it was. Your lovely lady is doing well, I hope?" and a friendly nod, "yes, quite. I'll enjoy telling her of our meeting today; I'm sure she remembers you quite well." He looked over at Goniff, "if I am not mistaken . . ." to get a familiar cheeky "thought it was you, gov! Been a few years, but you aint changed much. Different name ya 'ad back then, if I remember. Ruddy mess that was, eh? Thought we'd all end up on the wrong end of a Kraut firing squad afore it was all over!"

Meghada looked appraisingly at Waverly, then from one to the other of her men. "You'll fill me in later, I hope," she asked with interest, "I don't think I was along on that one."

"Naw, you was off somewhere else that time, luv; Norway, I think; coulda used you though. See . . ." and a low fond laugh from Garrison, "Goniff, later, okay?" which got a wide grin from that wide expressive mouth and a rueful shrug of agreement.

"The rest of your team . . ." Waverly hesitated, not wanting to bring up bad memories; two of the men had been severely wounded on that mission and he'd never heard if they'd survived. Garrison nodded easily, knowing what was in the man's mind, "they are all three doing well."

Napoleon broke in, "You remember him, know him, Mr. Waverly. You're sure he isn't . . ."

"Quite sure, Mr. Solo, though I can certainly understand your concern. You see, Mr. Grainger, you bear a remarkable resemblance to an enemy agent we knew as Mr. Ecks, and if we didn't know for certain he was no longer with us, well . . ." Waverly didn't go into how Ecks also had looked familiar, but that he had reassured himself at the time that it was indeed a different man than he'd encountered in the war; there had been the evident age difference for one thing.

That got a rueful look from the slender Englishman, "another one, eh? That old bastard what sired me certainly spread it around; know of at least three others who were close enough in looks to pass, with a few changes; not surprised there's more. One almost got away with it, except for my 'Gaida 'ere." He shrugged, turned to give them his profile, lifting his head high; "none o them near as good looking as me, acourse, but 'ow could they be, ei?" and that got him a teasing flick of the fingers upside his head from both the woman AND the man accompanying him, and a mixture of giggles and laughs from the youngsters.

Goniff was pleased with the distraction, thinking {"there, that shoulda kept them from looking at M'Coury; she's good, but couldn't 'ave been easy to keep 'er face straight for that. Surprised she don't already 'ave a blade in 'er 'and! Breathin's off some, that's for sure, and that little shiver, well . . . ."}

Garrison cleared his throat, bringing matters back to order, but still with a grin on his face, "now, Mr. Waverly, about that envelope?" And with a gracious wave of his hand, the three took seats at the table, and the two youngsters who'd been standing did too. Waverly was rather miffed to see that from Garrison it only took a slight motion of the head to accomplish what he'd not been able to.

"Yes, an envelope. A communication from someone planted rather deep inside a suspect organization. We needed it rather badly, you know. We were hoping your young people might have seen something that might point us in the right direction, and of course, we wanted to be sure they weren't part of a deliberate attempt to frustrate our efforts to retrieve it. However, it appears all to have been happenstance, the Thrush agent passing through and encountering them, getting past and our men being perhaps a bit rough in trying to get through in their persuit. I'm afraid Miss," and he frowned over the unfamiliar name, and he was helped along with a pert, "M'Coury, short for Marya Couran, which you have to admit is a mouthful and a half," she chuckled.

"Ah, yes, Miss M'Coury was rather tumbled about, and young Jamie as well."

Garrison leaned back in his chair, looking from one to the other and raised his eyebrows as he exchanged glances with Meghada and Goniff. "Tumbled about, were you? Do we need to have more hand-to-hand drills, that you let yourselves be 'tumbled about' so easily?" came in a dry voice from the redheaded woman, glancing at Davenport and Collins with more contemptuous disbelief than censure.

"Well, probably not, came out pretty much like we'd intended," Jamie smiled contentedly. "Though their two men, well, Mr. Davenport there in particular, seemed to take it rather to 'eart. Wanted a rematch, I think, though Mr. Waverly seemed not inclined to allow it. Told 'im we'd do it one on one, any of us, though Randy did warn 'im about taking on M'Coury, w'at with the teeth and all."

Goniff snorted in agreement, "grip like a ruddy snappin turtle, she 'as. 'Gaida 'ad to switch 'er over to a bottle early on cause a that!" which sharing of perhaps overly personal information got him a certain look from the woman in question, and a hastily suppressed sound from Lisa Rogers.

"Daaaa!!" came the indignant protest from the girl, "don't know you can rightly blame me for that; seems I heard mum saying I got that from you, you know; said she knew it the first time she fed me!" and Goniff let out a surprised burst of laughter, though flushing a bright pink along with it, casting a sheepish look up through his sandy lashes at the woman. The noise from Lisa Rogers wasn't as successfully suppressed as before, turning into a ladylike snort.

Garrison looked over and grinned at Meghada, "well, that IS what you said, right from the beginning, that first time, though I wasn't sure if you were talking about her grip or her intense level of interest or her appetite!" and the redhead laughed as Goniff turned even pinker.

Goniff quickly moved to shift the subject back to their daughter, "Well, and when she got all 'er teeth, you learned to treat 'er just like a ruddy 'orse; you want to 'and 'er anything to eat, better just lay it on the palm of your 'and, you know, to keep your fingers."

"I'm not sure Mr. Davenport wants to go a round with you, M'Coury" Garrison said, taking in the horrified look on the agent's face.

"Well, I'd be willing to take a handicap, you know, promise not to bite," M'Coury said, obviously talking to Garrison now. "Or perhaps Mr. Kuryakin might want to go a round instead? That might prove interesting, yes?" she offered, eager innocence shining from her eyes as she smiled at the slender Russian. Solo and Kuryakin glanced at each other, bemusement evident at this bizarre invitation. Waverly was looking at her with a slightly puzzled look, {"something about her eyes, most disturbing, though I can't pinpoint just what it is that makes them so."}.

Jamie was looking at Waverly, now, and made a quick change in the conversation. {"Well, someone's got to bring this around; M'Coury's on the prod like I've never seen 'er before, and that's just not likely to turn out well! They'd only wish it was just the teeth they had to worry about, what with 'er 'aving 'er blades on 'er."}

"Just what name were you using in those days, if I might be so bold to ask?" and Waverly harrumphed, "those days are long past and unimportant now."

"Just wanted to know cause of our Ma and Da and Daddy Andrew, you know; did a bit of the same type a thing in those days, the three of them did. Might be you crossed paths," the boy explained. "Da and Daddy Andrew, they based outta the south of Germany, part of what they called a Travelers Aid Society, they were, with a few extra little duties on the side; I know Daddy Andrew blew up any number of things along the way, 'ad a real passion for bridges, and munitions plants and trains and such, with Da doing all 'is 'magic fingers' stuff, but Ma, she did a bit of ranging all over. Not so much as our aunt or uncles here, but some." Jamie never chattered as a rule, but in the interest of keeping bloodshed to a minimum was willing to channel Daddy Andrew.

Waverly looked at him, another faintly remembered face looming up out of the distant past, blue-green eyes and a cheeky grin, another Cockney accent, that term 'magic fingers', and just the start of a smile eased that stern look. "It could just be; around Hammelburg, perhaps? They might remember me as another Andrew, then, Andrew Billings; I used that as often as not."

The talk switched to the reasons for the family being in New York, and it appeared not only was there that visit to a new exhibit opening at the Metropolitan, but that they were to attend a showing of two new musicals, both of which the woman had written some of the music for; there was something about a publisher, too, and a bit of other business, about which the taller blond man was rather vague.

Craig Garrison stood up and sighed, "Well, I hate to break this up, but we DO need to be going. What do you think, love, can we help Mr. Waverly with his dilemma about that envelope?" and the other UNCLE agents were startled to see he was addressing the bouncy blond man, not the redheaded woman.

He got a wicked grin in response, "wouldn't be much doubt of it, now would there, Craig? 'E mighta got your knack for strategy, but 'e got my fingers along with me over-all good looks, 'e did! And Jamie there, well, a chip off the old block, 'e is!"

And the three adult visitors focused on the small blond youngster and the dark haired one, both with smug grins on their faces, and Goniff held out his hand and twitched his fingers, "alright now, 'and it over, and let's get on with it. I wanna see that show at the museum, got lottsa the same kinda stuff we . . ." and he blinked rapidly, an innocent look filling his face, "'eard so much about in the war, you know." And that sweet guileless smile was enough to make Napoleon Solo want to check his pockets again, along with touching his gun in reassurance.

Illya Kuryakin cleared his throat, "your son seems to have a talent for electronics; I was hoping to ask him some questions," and Randy grinned, "I'll send you the specs if ya like; draw them up afore we 'ead for 'ome; leave them with the nice gent downstairs? There'll be a way to get in touch if you 'ave any questions."

In the meanwhile, he was flicking through one of the large paperback books and retrieved a slightly mangled sheet of paper and put it in his da's hand. "Their Thrushie never felt a thing, and those two didn't see anything either." He grinned and twiddled his fingers in the air, gleefully. Goniff grinned back, "that's my good lad!" And the UNCLE agents, and their leader, just looked at each other, realizing that folded paper had been in the room the whole time.

Napoleon just had to say it, "and you couldn't have just told us that?" He got a look from the whole family, not just the young ones.

"Didn't know you from a robin's egg, did we now? Why would we have done a foolish thing like that?" came from Louisa, with a perplexed frown on her face.

Waverly wondered out loud, "then what was Victor Marton so pleased about, if his courier didn't have the envelope either?"

Randy said, "oh, 'e 'ad the envelope, right enough, just not the same piece of paper inside. Doubt that 'e knew yet, if this Marton bloke is one a them Thrushies. Slid in my translation lesson instead; might take them some time to come up with someone who can work their way through 9th Century Celtic; it was a rather obscure dialect, you know, not the basic," for all the world as if basic 9th Century Celtic was something most anyone could make their way around, "and lest they're interested in the legend of Scathatch, I doubt they'll get much out of it. And even then, I would suppose, for a more convoluted tale I never 'ave 'eard!"

Meghada asked, still not clear about that part of the tale, "what caused you to snaffle it in the first part?"

Louisa explained, "was sort of an experiment. We saw the Thrushie grab the envelope; we were trying to see if he was more careful, more observant what with him having done that and got away with it, weighted against those other two coming after him, or if his success and his need for making haste weighted against his concern about those two would make him careless, less observent. It was Randy's turn to do the magic fingers stuff, Jamie did it last time, so we got him the room and took care of the distractions."

Waverly felt the deep throb in his temples, and the looks on his agents face told him his headache had spread to the others. He didn't really want to think about that youngster lifting that envelope, removing and replacing the paper inside and replacing the envelope, all without either the Thrush agent or his two supposedly experienced men being any the wiser. And the four of them coming up with such a scheme on what had to be a moment's notice when they'd just happened to see the original snatch. Some days he just felt older than others! Though he was sure his wife would be enchanted with the story, considering their prior history; she'd been rather captivated by the little blond pickpocket, he remembered, though she'd denied it later. He momentarily thought about the prospect of recruiting these youngsters, but decided his nerves would never handle it, never mind what Julius Cutter would say.

"Come on, you lot, that exhibit is due to open soon and we want to get there early."

Waverly cleared his throat, "if you are speaking of the exhibit at the Metropolitan, I can arrange for special passes if you like; I know the Curator. I'm rather afraid it has been sold out for the first few weeks of this exhibit."

Meghada smiled at him, "thank you, that's thoughtful of you, but they are expecting us. You see, we seem to have come across a piece or two that originally came from that collection but had gone slightly astray during the war, and thought they might like to reunite the pieces. They were quite pleased, enough to give us passes for the opening," to a muttered complaint from Goniff, "and I still don't see that why we needed to be doing that in the first place; went to a lotta trouble, we did, getting our 'ands on those bits back then, just to 'and them over now." That garnered him sighs from the youngsters, and reproving looks from Garrison and Meghada. He heaved a deeply put-upon sigh, "just saying, I am!" and the other two snorted with laughter.

Waverly closed his eyes, feeling that headache deepen, and watched their 'visitors' start to take their leave. Goniff turned as he reached the door, "and my best regards to your lovely lady; something a bit of all right, she was, as I remember," with a wickedly smug grin, that getting him an annoyed look from Waverly, Garrison and most certainly one redhaired woman who was quick to inform him, "you just keep your 'best regards' right where they'll do you the most good, my bucko! As I remember the stories, never once on all those missions did you ever meet any females other than ancient and most unattractive ones. Is it a different tune you're starting to sing now, my laddie? Do I need to go inquiring . . ." her voice trailing off as they made their way down the hall.

The younger girl's eyes flickered over at the Russian one last time; Waverly tried to tell himself it was just part of that fascination the young blond agent seemed to have for susceptible females, but somehow he didn't quite think that was it; whatever was behind those impassive gold brown eyes, he didn't think it was infatuation. Garrison's hand on her shoulder urged her out the door. Waverly sighed, {"Oh, well; it's hardly important."}

When they had all left and the door closed again, "Gentlemen, let's get back to business. Mr. Solo, take this paper to de-coding and wait for their response. Mr. Kuryakin, please make it a priority to go over those specifications when they arrive and follow up with any details you might deem necessary; I really do not want Thrush to discover what that young man seems to have discovered about our failings in the technological area. Miss Rogers, if there is another communication from Victor Marton, please record it on the same tape as his most recent communicatioin; I rather believe I might like to listen to them both, together, again, perhaps several times. As for you two gentlemen, I'd suggest a refresher course, but quite frankly, I can't imagine just what would have helped you in your earlier encounter. For now, you just might just go prepare your reports. Dismissed." He stood slowly, heading for that brandy bottle; it might be a trifle early, but exceptions had to be made for circumstances. 

"Dad, don't know I'm in the mood for the museum; maybe I'll just go back to the hotel and . . ."

"NO! We are going to the museum, you are going with us. Consider yourself joined to us at the hip til we leave New York, young lady!" Garrison looked at his daughter, saw the dialogue going on in her mind, her deciding whether to defy him or not, slip away and take care of a little personal business. That worried him more than a little; even at her age, whether she'd back down or not was more a matter of her love and respect for him, not a matter of him being in a position of being able to force her to obey.

Meghada put a gentle hand on M'Coury's shoulder, "I know, love, I understand, but it's not the right time, and I'm not sure it's what is wanted, anyway, are you? Might ending up bringing trouble where you'd not like it to land." They could see her easing down, considering that, and they could tell when she got control again. And if her attention wasn't totally on the exhibit, at least she didn't attempt to sneak off and repay an old score.

Garrison was relieved about that; he had enough on his mind making sure Goniff didn't see anything that took his fancy enough to try snaffling it. As far as he knew, he'd been successful, had managed to clamp down on that wrist just before those clever fingers closed on that enameled snuffbox. Still, the slightly smug look on Goniff's face as they left, that made Garrison wonder if perhaps he'd missed something of importance. He figured he'd hear about it eventually if he had; museums weren't all that shy about screaming when one of their little goodies went missing. 

They were on their way home, in an airplane piloted by one of Meghada's innumerable cousins, when Randy finally asked the question he'd been wanting to ask. "They didn't seem to know 'e's still alive, well, the both of them, I guess, though they only mentioned HIM. You think thats on the up and up?"

"Would seem like, from w'at I could tell."

"You didn't say anything, you or Dad or Mum. Them being Thrushies, that don't seem like it's such a good thing."

Magheda said in a firm voice, "USED to be, and NOT Thrushies, another organization altogether. I think Mr. Waverly just didn't want to complicate anything, and he'd already mentioned the Thrushies so probably seemed easiest not to bring up anyone else. He didn't want to give out more information than he needed to make his point."

"Still, not w'at Waverly and the others would have considered the good guys," Randy puzzled over, remembering Mr. Ecks and Mr. Wye and the times they had spent together.

Jamie replied, "not 'ardly, and since twas Kuryakin w'at almost did for him when they tangled on a job, wasn't something that needed to be discussed in there; no good would've come of it, for anyone."

Craig took over, "The thing to remember, a man like Alexander Waverly, he has to see things in pretty much black and white, to keep his mind on the job. We saw it during the war, and while to some extent it's necessary, it led to some problems too. I imagine he'd not put us too far on the 'good guy' side, either, if at all, if we let him in on a lot of the things we've been involved in, either as Clan or as a team; there were a lot on our own side during the war who thought the same, you know."

Meghada added, "I wouldn't like to ask his impression of Maeve and those two American officers, and I'm pretty sure that set of 'shallow graves on the far hillside' would be enough all by itself, and that's the least of it, you know. We tend to take care of problems and threats and situations in our own way; I can only imagine what he'd think about the Ravens or the Trophy Room at the Grandmother's House, never MIND the Big Brown Eagle, and THAT'S not ancient history! Don't be hasty in taking his judgement too much to heart, loves. He's an Outlander, you know; their opinions can be sometimes interesting, but not necessarily relevant to US."

Craig tried to hide his grin at that superior comment, and that instinctive regal tilt of Meghada's head. There was a long silence.

"Da, do you think we'll see them again? I liked 'im, I did, both of them. Reminded me of you and Dad, kinda, though not exactly, if you know what I mean?"

Goniff smirked over at Craig, "you talking bout Ecks and Wye, I think, not Solo and Kuryakin? Probably true on both parts though; yeah, I know w'at you mean, and I'm not so sure of all that myself, but aint really any of our business neither. And whether we'll see any of them again, cant tell about that. Solo and Kuryakin, better not, don't need entangling in their world cept what comes by accident like this, and I don't want ANY meetings between those two and you, M'Coury. You did good, keeping it under control, but you can't count on that always being the case, not with your temper and all. Ecks and Wye, they're clear of the business now; got a right to try and make a new life for themselves if they can; know to reach out to us if they want a 'and, we made the offer, but 'e's still way bitter you know, and not too ready to trust, and Wye's too leary about 'im getting 'urt all over again."

Goniff frowned, remorse on his expressive face, "never knew about 'im, I didn't; only learned about the others, leastwise the ones we figured were brothers or cousins and such, as they came outta the woodwork. Might be plenty a others out there; like I said, Redmond and 'is brothers, they really spread themselves around, mostly in the East End, even with them being toffs and all. And 'e's younger by quite a bit; not Andrew's git, like we figured I am, that one got 'imself offed too early for Ecks to be 'is; maybe a grandson from one of the first of the ones he sired; started ruddy early 'e did, with the 'ousemaids when no more than a lad. So, 'e's not my brother, nephew more like, more or less if from Andrew; if from one of the brothers, later on, could be a cousin, I suppose. Remember, 'e said 'is old man didn't look like us, was 'is mum, and the girls didn't stand out so much, I guess, there being no Redmond girls to compare against. Still, rotten deal 'e 'ad, more'n me and the others, I think. Least I was free to make my own way. If I'd known, maybe I coulda done something."

Craig smiled, shook his head, "but you didn't know, not about him, not about his mother, and there's no sense beating yourself up over it. If it's like we think, she was born a good twelve years or more before you, already linked in with that organization by the time you were much more than a kid yourself. Like you said, they have a chance for a new life, and we'll lend a hand if there's any way we can help. That's pretty much all we can do. Thing is, after a life like they've had, I doubt settling them down in a peaceful enclave somewhere, or at the Cottage, would suit them for long."

Goniff nodded in agreement, "yeah, well aint like we settled down to picking roses and making jam right off, either, though things are a bit more peaceful now. Ecks, though," his voice got softer, "don't like to think of 'im being left that way, just a kid, lost and alone and scared; them taking advantage of 'im that way; been there, didn't much like it."

M'Coury had remained quiet up to this time, but now she leaned forward to rest a comforting hand on his arm, "but he's not alone, is he, da, not any more. Wye is with him, they'll take care of each other proper like," and that statement was made with calm assurance.

She got an absorbed look on her face, with a rather odd little smile, "still, I liked him, quite a lot. He's funny, and loyal when it's deserved, like with Mr. Wye, and really quite comfortable to be with. He's dangerous enough himself that I don't make him overly nervous either, like I do with some. He smelled really good, too, like saddle leather, and lemon peel and fresh mowed hay, and when I kissed him on his forehead to test for fever, he tasted like honey and sweet tea and tobacco and oranges. Could be we'll meet again, when I'm some older; I'd like that," and her parents looked at her closely, something about the tone of her voice, and those words sent a shiver of apprehension through Craig, remembering such a description from years back, how Meghada had spotted that imposter immediately because he 'doesn't smell like Goniff, doesn't taste like him!'.

Randy frowned over at his younger sister, "that dont seem polite, somehow; 'ope you don't go about telling people 'ow I smell and taste; and I never noticed anything about him smelling like that anyways. Just like blood and sweat at the beginning, then the 'ospital smell, and then nothing out of the ordinary after we got 'im cleaned up. And since when can you taste someone just by kissing them on the forehead to check for fever anyway?"

His sister snorted, "not likely to tell anyone how you smell or taste, big brother; can't say I ever bothered to notice in the first place!" She thought to herself, with a silent snicker, {"Bet Louisa could tell us both, though, but probably she'd not like me asking."} She made sure to avoid that last comment of his; she could answer that, but it would open up a line of discussion she thought might best be left alone. That got the two siblings bantering back and forth nicely, distracting them from the rather odd looks on their parents' faces.

Goniff started to say something, then looked at Meghada, saw the understanding look and the start of that rueful grin of hers and sighed. No, he knew better than to step into THAT pit of quicksand; he'd learned that lesson right well by watching Kevin Richards all those years ago; well, he'd been on the receiving end of those comments, now hadn't he. Best leave it alone for now; M'Coury was only twelve, well, almost thirteen; probably put Goniff's maybe-nephew out of her mind before her next birthday, probably, maybe. Well, there was a slight chance, anyway. Still, there was something about that little Mona Lisa smile on her face.

He though uneasily of Meghada's mother, Felane, and also of Caeide, Meghada's oldest sister, and come to think of it, there was Coura, the next to youngest sister as well, and he groaned to himself remembering just how young they'd all made their decision about who they wanted and how steadfast they'd stuck with that, and just hoped he'd have the strength for all he saw ahead. He just hoped she'd wait another couple, three years before she really got serious, give him time to sort of brace himself.

Craig found himself thinking about all those arguments Richards had tried, all the reasons Goniff wasn't right for Meghada, and even earlier, the reasons Peter was such a bad choice for Caeide. He had a feeling all of those reasons, along with any others he could come up with, wouldn't have much more of an impact on their daughter.

Meghada snuggled closer to her Englishman, leaned her head into the curve of his neck, dropping a very gentle kiss there, touching the very tip of her tongue to his skin as she did so, {"umm, tea and whisky, tobacco, ripe strawberries and honey."} She glanced over at her daughter, {"testing for fever, was she now?"}

Craig Garrison watched them fondly, and after the kids settled down, he slid down in his own seat a little, his head dropping over to touch Goniff's flaxen one. He inhaled deeply, {"sage, mint, musk,"} and he smiled and drifted off into sleep.


	2. Mr. Ecks, Mr. Wye and Mr. G

Andrew had coming running down the concourse hell bent for leather, almost plowing into the men standing smoking at the side entrance, "Plane musta come in early! They're already here and Goniff's in trouble. Buncha guys piled on him, looks like he's hurt." They spared a fast disbelieving look at each other before they threw their cigarettes to one side and took off at a fast run. He filled them in gasps as they ran, "some guy's trying to help him, looks like, but they're really outnumbered. No sign of the girls!" He gulped harshly and tried to get his breath. Normally he'd not have called Meghada or Caeide 'girls', no, nor M'Coury either, but somehow he just hadn't had the wind to go sounding out their names. He figured they'd understand.

They rounded a bend into an isolated hallway to see Goniff, blood streaming down the side of his face and an ominous patch of deep red from some unseen source spreading across the front of his shirt and his trousers, still putting up a fight, but clearly at his last effort. An older man with a moustache was trying to keep the others off the short blond, but was taking some hard blows himself. As the four men reached the brawl, both of the men they'd come to help went down under a flurry of expertly wielded saps, and already taken a couple of hard kicks in the body. The attackers never saw the men descending on them, and probably never even felt the blows taking them down. Then, it was over, Andrew and Peter, Casino and Chief quickly going to the aid of their friend and the unknown Good Samaritan.

Peter took a fast look around, "no sign of Caeide and the others," he growled. He leveled a deadly glare on the unconscious men they'd dumped in a pile to get them out of the way, "better wake one a them up, see w'at they can tell us!" He cursed prolifically, "just a nice easy trip, no problems, and then THIS 'as to 'appen. Bloody 'ell!" running his fingers through his dark hair.

"Don't worry, Peter," Casino assured him, "we'll find them!"

Chief was kneeling beside the two fallen men, Andrew with him. "Damn shame, too. First time Goniff aint even green like he usually is getting off a plane and he hasta get jumped," shaking his head. He leaned back a little, taking a closer look, and somehow, something just wasn't right, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it, other than Goniff had obviously picked up a different jacket somewhere along the line, though all the blood had ruined it.

Andrew piped up, "well, we'd better get them somewhere safe, find the others and get outta here before someone calls the cops! How bad is Goniff hurt, Chief, can you tell?"

A female voice from behind them had their heads jerking around, "yes, how bad are they both hurt?" Two women stood there, concerned looks on their faces, as they started to come forward at a brisk pace. Peter was a little surprised at that, that the looks were just concern, not more. Usually Meghada's reaction to Goniff being injured would have been more intense, about like the difference between a tap of a finger and a roundhouse punch; the words popped out before he could stop them. 

"Don't seem as concerned bout 'im as I'd 'ave thought; you two on the outs?"

He got a puzzled look, and then understanding crossed the woman's face, and a rueful smile. "Peter, that's NOT Goniff!" She was kneeling beside the blond man now, carefully checking him over, while Caeide did the same with the darker man.

The other four men looked at each other in disbelief, and took a closer look. Casino demanded, "you sure about that?" thinking to himself, {"havent we gone thru this shit once before? Hell, maybe two or three times even??"}

Meghada had opened the shirt and displayed part of a bloody gash, obviously a recent wound that had reopened under the attack; a quick motion had material for a hasty bandage to help staunch the flow. She carefully opened his trousers to press more material against where that gash continued.Their attention was fixed on that unpleasant sight when a raspy voice came from behind them, "think she's pretty sure, Casino," and the men turned in shock. Goniff was standing there, usual greenish after-flying tinge to his pale face, hand cart with luggage piled on, watching with great interest.

"Hey, da! Looks like we missed all the excitement," from the girl standing beside him up, getting a calm, "looks like, pet."

Some quick organization had the cars at the side entrance, a quick search of the two men revealed the baggage claim checks and Andrew and Chief darted off to collect whatever they could find. By the time they were back, a couple of the attackers were started to come around, but a sharp calculated blow took care of that, and they lapsed back into unconsciousness like their fellows. Chief had assured the others that the men hadn't seen enough to recognize them, so it was decided to just leave them there; hopefully that was the right decision, and perhaps wouldn't have been their decision if they knew more about what had instigated that incident back there, but it seemed best for now. If it turned out to be an attack intended for the family, well, they would deal with that later, and in much more definitive measures; their tolerance for such was pretty low by anyone's standards; the general awareness of that is what helped KEEP the instances of that pretty damned low as well.

The two wounded men had already been loaded carefully into the back seat of the first car, the blond quickly but very carefully eased into position, the dark one beside him, Meghada to one side, Caeide to the other, the family's luggage retrieved and loaded into the trunk, and when Chief and Andrew returned, just one small case each in their hands, they all got the heck out of there. Peter was driving the lead car, Casino beside him; Chief was driving the second car with Andrew and the rest of the family.

"What do we do with them? We don't know them, don't know w'at they were up to with those guys. 'Ate to bring them back to your 'omebase without more details."

Meghada agreed with them, certainly, but "that's not an issue right now; they both need medical attention, this one very much so, so I think the hospital's the best place. We can figure the rest out later," and they sped their way to the small private hospital that had been their ace in the hole during the war. Her brothers still did some work there, and now a couple of cousins, and more than one member of the Family and Friends list. They'd find welcome, care and discretion there, and adequate security should it be necessary. They even had a small suite up on the third floor, out of the way, for when family needed to stay for some reason.

Both men were starting to rouse now; Caeide had suggested they keep the two men in the same car, to help ease any anxiety should they waken on the trip and wonder what had happened to their fellow combatant. They didn't know if the two were friends or just mixed up in the brawl by happenstance, but that would be discovered soon. Likewise, Goniff and Randy were in the other car, not to have the uncanny resemblance cause any untoward reaction in either wounded man. M'Coury was kept in the other car just because they all felt it was best to have the men surrounded by fully able fighters, if it turned out these men were a danger, though by the looks of things, M'Coury and Randy could have probably handled the both of them without much difficulty with no help at all.

Meghada rather thought the older man was fully conscious now, but making a sham of it being otherwise, though the smaller man was truly out of it, at least from his pulse rate and eye movement. She addressed the one she thought was awake, "you don't have to pretend you're not awake, you know. We've no intention of harming you, and you'll want to see how your friend is doing. We've got most of the bleeding stopped for now. In case you're wondering, you're both on the way to a hospital we know of, where you can both get proper treatment without a lot of unwanted attention." Her words were calm and steady, but the look she got when the man opened his eyes was anything but trusting. Still, after one quick look around, he focused on the blond, leaned back against the cushions beside him. While he strove to maintain a studied composure, it was obvious he was dismayed at what he saw.

"Got that wound re-opened, did e? Was afraid a that; knew it was too soon for us to be making the trip," he said, sounding disgusted with himself.

"Aye, it re-opened, but we got the bleeding pretty well stopped. Like as not they'll be able to fix him up all right and tight," Caeide said, from the other side.

"Ya gonna tell us just what the hell that was all about," Casino challenged from the shotgun seat in front, getting a quick though not harsh reprimand from Meghada, "shoosh, not now, Casino. There's time enough for that later. Right now, I think you should just lean back and try to rest; seems like you got worked over rather well yourself, Mr?"

She got a chilly appraising look, "just call me . . . . Wye."

"Short for Wyatt, Wyman, Wylan?" He blinked, and she knew it wasn't that at all.

"Most like," he agreed with her, and other than a quirk of her eyebrow she let it rest. Wye didn't lean back and rest, though, he eased himself into more of a sideways position, taking no note of how the others in the car tensed, in case he was intending to jump one of the women, maybe take her hostage. But his attention was solely on the younger man slumped back against the seat, still unconscious. {"Come on, duck. Open those blue eyes and look at me. Told me ya weren't gonna be doing this to me again, you did! My'eart aint as young as it used to be."} His face was impassive, but somehow no one doubted that there was both sincere worry and concern involved on his part.

Luckily, those at their destination were used to this sort of thing, being the hospital of choice for the team and having seen them through many injuries and illnesses in the past, and quickly got matters sorted out. The two men ended up in the same hospital room eventually, much to Wye's relief, cleaned up, new stitches in place, and, after a quick consultation about allergies, reactions, and such things, pain meds administered. Wye was hesitant about that, but he knew Ecks would be needing that when he woke up; he'd gotten a good look at that reopened gash and had shuddered, remembering at how close a call that had been. Well, seems like no one had pulled anything fancy; Ecks was awake now, reasonably clear headed if more than slightly bewildered by the tale his partner had told him, the rescue by the decidedly determined strangers.

"And no word as to WHY they stuck their fingers in?" he asked, worried frown on his face, the old saying about the frying pan and the fire evident in his mind.

The door opened and a stocky dark haired man strode in, followed by a redhaired girl, maybe early teens, "mistaken identity, guys, but hey, don't knock it. Seems you could use a little help, even if we hadn't been formally introduced." He was obviously American, a little rough around the edges in his speech, but with a relaxed congenial look on his face. He squinted over at Ecks in a searching and somewhat overly familiar manner that had both Ecks and Wye on edge, and shaking his head in disbelief, hollered back out the door, "hey, Goniff, your old man have insomnia or somethin? Wouldn't think it by the way YOU saw a log, but hell, man, I don't think he ever SLEPT, ya know??!" A raspy chuckle was his answer, and a voice, strong Cockney background quite evident, accompanied a short, slender flaxen-haired man, a somewhat older version of Ecks to the life, though his eyes were a hazier, lighter blue instead of stone blue, walked into the room.

"Not that I ever 'eard, but mighta been, Casino. Good an explanation as any, I spose." Both Ecks and Wye's jaw dropped, and their shocked eyes became even more so as a slender blond boy of maybe thirteen or fourteen, this one a much younger version of Ecks except for the brilliant green eyes and more gold in his hair, bounced into the room two steps behind. The boy stared intently, but not shocked, so this probably wasn't his first glance at the doppelganger.

"And what are you doing 'ere; thought you were staying with Craig and your mum?" he was asked in pretend sternness, only to get a cheeky grin.

"Thought they might wake up frisky, Da; thought you and Casino might need my 'elp; not as young as both of you once were, you know."

That got a snort from the one called Casino, "Thanks a lot, kid! Knew we could count on you!", and the girl, only a inch or so shorter than the two newcomers took her turn, "well, they don't look so dangerous right now, but. . . " she paused and her gaze was intense, her eyes slightly squinted in concentration, and both men in the hospital beds had the uncomfortable feeling she was looking all the way to the deepest part of them. She broke the gaze and smiled, "and while dangerous they truly are, it would seem, I think not to us."

She quickly stepped over to the first bed and casually perched on the side; the two men in the beds took a fast glance over at the others, wondering how they'd react. Seemingly, her actions only made the men a little more watchful, and the boy stepped closer. Wye saw him fingering the seam in his jeans, and somehow knew there was a knife hidden there. The boy reminded him so much of Ecks, all those years ago, or like Ecks should have been, and he felt his heart clench. Perhaps this boy had had an easier time of it, had people to care about him, take proper care of him; Wye certainly hoped so. Something about those calm and confident green eyes told Wye that was the case, and he was glad.

M'Coury had carefully wiggled into a comfortable position, trying not to jar the man leaning back against the raised pillows, and was studying Ecks, who was squinting back at her, unsure of how to take her. She smiled, warm and friendly, "you DO look a lot like our da, you know, just like Randy said you did, at least on the outside, but not so much inside, I think; the scars are in different places, though there's plenty of them. Oh, that's Randy, over there; he's my older brother," nodding over at the blond boy. Since Ecks didn't have any facial scars, that rather puzzled him and his partner, and they didn't think the girl would have been allowed to see anywhere else. {"Way she worded that, almost like she was talking about scars on the inside. Odd, that's what that is, and her along with it!"} Ecks thought with a suspicious look.

"Enough alike for Uncle Andrew to be mistaken and think it was Da that was being attacked. That was lucky for you. They handled you really rough it seems, and Uncle Patrick, he's the one who treated you, says you'd already been hurt awfully bad. But don't worry; he took care of everything; he's really good at being a doctor; he takes care of all of us, well, him and Uncle James."

She reached and patted him carefully on his arm, him refraining with some effort from shying away like a nervous colt, her still chattering away, "I'm M'Coury, what's your name?" and Wye was stunned when his partner stuttered around and answered, "Luther"; Wye couldn't remember the last time Ecks had given his real name to anyone.

"I like that. Kinda like Lugh, you know?; we studied him in class; a warrior hero, he was, The Bright One he was called sometimes, and the translation said he was either a sun god or a storm god. You'd think they'd know which, don't you? Doesn't seem like the two would be so very much alike. And I always rather pictured a storm god as being dark, not fair-haired like Lugh supposedly was, but one of our teachers said The Bright One was referring to his throwing bolts of silver lightning, not his looks."

Ecks was just starting to get the drift of this highly unusual monologue when it shifted in an abrupt sharp turn. He thought he felt his mind skid as it tried to follow after hers, though he did like this new direction a whole lot better. "I bet you're getting hungry; they'll be bringing you something to eat soon. I know most hospital food is supposed to be really bad, but Uncle Patrick and Uncle James say that's no way to get a body well again, so they make sure it's really good here. Not like Mum was making it, or Maudie, or Aunt Caeide, of course, but still really good. I told mum she needed to be sure there was plenty; you looking so much like Da and all, figured you'd have his appetite too, maybe. Eats for three, he does, lest he's really hungry, then it's more like four." That got a reluctant snicker from Wye, having dealt with the formidable task of trying to keep Ecks fed through their long partnership.

"Mum says all his appetites are like that, food, drink and all else, but he gets all pink-faced and gives that sheepish grin when she says it, and Dad just laughs and teases him."

By now the blond in the bed probably couldn't stretch his eyes any wider, and he cast an almost imploring look over to the two men standing there grinning at each other, the shorter one now slightly rosy in the face. The boy walked over and hiked himself on the side of Wye's bed, giving him a friendly and knowing nod, but addressing his younger sister. "Ever 'ear of the concept of too much information, M'Coury? Cause I think that might 'ave been a prime example. Don't want these blokes thinking Mum's given to complaining about Da and all."

He gave Wye and Ecks a quick sly wink and smirked at his younger sister, who just gave a mock exasperated sigh, "never said she was complaining, now did I? Seems she's just fine with his appetites, all of them, relishes them even, just like Dad does, though I'm just as glad our rooms are in the other wing now. Certainly quieter than the room next to theirs that we have to use when there's too much company."

Casino groaned, "ah, shit; that's the room where they have me and Chief staying tonight."

The door swung open again to let in a tall blond man with green eyes and a redhaired woman, both bearing trays with covered dishes, "and what are you bemoaning now, Casino?"

"Hey, Meghada, any chance of putting me and Chief somewhere else tonight, other than that bedroom next to you three? It's been a long couple a days, and I could use some sleep!" The newcomers looked at each other, puzzled at the request, and the snorts and giggles in the room then caused a highly speculative look to be shared between them.

"Only if you are willing to let Jamie and Randy share with you and you four take the spare cots in the storage room; we're fair to bursting at the seams right now, especially til the repairs are done on the roof over your rooms, though that's due to happen tomorrow or the next day. You've used that room before, Casino; was there a problem I'm unaware of?"

"Yeah, I used the room before, but that's when at least two of you was off on a job somewhere, never when all three of you were home. I've just been advised the accoustics leave something to be desired, if you know what I mean, when you all get to 'singin'." That got a variety of responses, from growls to snickers to laughs.

The tall blond man stepped forward, reaching out to shake hands with each of them, "I'm Craig Garrison, by the way, this is Meghada. It seems my family sort of abducted you, or maybe rescued you, or maybe some combination of those two. There wasn't time to ask what you preferred, you know, so for now just sit back and rest and we can talk later and we can sort things out. Kids, get those tray tables in place, will you?"

A quick, "aye, Dad," and "course, Dad," had Ecks and Wye exchanging puzzled looks again. {"Da, Mum, AND Dad??"} The trays were set in place, containers uncovered, and they both had to admit the steaming food looked both appetizing and plentiful. "There's dessert too, but we'll bring that after, if you're still in the mood for it. I saw chocolate cake, and cherry pie, and maybe a few other things."

Wye saw the avid gleam of interest in his partner's eyes, and he snorted, "oh, 'e'll be in the mood alright. I'll be lucky to get meself around 'alf of this lot; 'e'll most likely finish it for me, and still be ready for afters. A real 'ealthy appetite, 'e 'as," and then stopped with a reluctant grin crossing his face as he glanced at the others.

M'Coury just gave a satisfied nod, "thought so!" and Casino gave a loud groan, "now don't start that up again!" Meghada raised a brow and said, "and should I ask?" and got a resounding NO! from at least two, maybe more voices, and the man Wye was beginning to think of as 'Ecks in another fifteen-twenty years' turned a brilliant shade of pink. Garrison rounded everyone up, and shoo'd them out the door, "time for all of us to get something to eat, too, and let them have their meal in peace." He turned to the two men in the beds, "can you manage, or do you want one of us to stay? The button at the end of those cords will summon a nurse if you DO need something in that area." He was assured they'd be fine, and he left, shutting the door behind him.

Ecks and Wye listened as the voices dimmed as the group made their way down the hallway. Ecks took a cautious bite of the meal in front of him, and his eyes flared in appreciation. He turned to his partner, "don't know just what we dropped into, Wye, but so far it's been a pretty soft landing. Just wait til you taste this shepherds pie!" And they both dove in to the trays, and when Wye was full, he stretched to put his partially-finished plate on his younger partner's table, getting a wide grin in return.

"Thanks!" Wye snorted a little, but with a great deal of inner appreciation at the gusto with which the food was being consummed. Ecks had just finished, with a satisfied sigh, and was saying, "wonder if they'll remember about dessert, what d'ya think," when another man, dark of hair, bronzed skin, accompanied by the two youngsters, came through the door.

"Goniff insisted you'd be waiting for this," the man said with a very small, rather shy smile. Ecks got a grin like Wye hadn't seen for some time, "and right he was!" looking at the dishes eagerly. And there was a wide wedge of chocolate cake, rich with a cherry filling and dark icing; another, just as big, of cherry pie with a lattice top; and two bowls of vanilla ice cream.

"Who wants what, or do we split it so you each get half," the man asked, "and they call me Chief, by the way."

Wye looked at the bounty, "I'm Wye, 'e's Ecks, and I'd not mind 'alf of that pie, the pointy end, with a bit of the ice cream. Give the rest to 'im, 'e'll finish it easily enough."

The two youngsters exchanged a knowing grin, and Ecks found himself blushing for some reason. That happened again when the girl managed to slip that little napkin-wrapped bundle down next to his hand, being careful not to be seen. A truly cheeky grin filled her face as she leaned over to whisper something to him, and she nodded and left, and he undid the folds to reveal four sugar cookies, dotted with spice.

Wye couldn't see what he was looking at, "what've you got there?" and Ecks gave his own grin and held out the stack on his outstretched hand.

"Want one?" and Wye asked him, incredulously, "you can't possibly still be 'ungry??!"

And the cheeky grin he got in return had a lot in common with M'Coury's, "well, don't want them to go to waste now, do we? After she went to all the trouble and all." Wye groaned, laid back and pulled his covers up over him, but smiling at those little sounds of contentment coming from the next bed. 

Somehow, and the two ex-agents never quite figured out how, Ecks and Wye ended up in a little village, in one of a row of attached cottages seemingly and reasonably enough called simply, The Cottages. It seemed there were other members of the family, as well, though the two men called Peter and Andrew and the other woman, the one called Caeide, had departed for their own home. There was a young woman called Lizzie, and their hostess's younger brother Douglas, and a wriggling bundle of giggles every one seemed to just call Mera, though they'd been told her name was Meralizza, but as Lizzie had said with a laugh, "we'll wait for that til the name isn't bigger than she is!" There was a tall Italian man called Actor, and an auburn haired woman called Lynn, Actor's wife and Craig Garrison's sister, along with their son, Paolo, maybe a year older than the irrepressable M'Coury, and a sweetly smiling dark-haired daughter of around eight called Nicola. There were others coming and going, perhaps living there, perhaps only in transition. There were little tikes, too, young Molly Lynn and Charles Rainey; Goniff had introduced them himself; "looks like her mum, acourse, like the girls in 'Gaida's family always do. Charlie, now, 'e's got my 'air and blue eyes, bigger than Randy was when 'e was born, though, even with being a twin, so might tend to 'ave Craig's build; be awhile til we know. 'As 'is smile, that's for certain." And if he saw their bewilderment at both men taking claim to Charlie, well, it was much of what they'd heard Goniff do with Randy before.

Ecks asked Wye later when they were alone, "that possible, what he was saying, the boys getting something from each?" Wye was equally puzzled, but had decided not to concern himself, "wouldn't a thought so, but nothing about this lot makes much sense to me, so why should that. Probably shouldn't say anything, outsida 'ere, though; might draw attention, and don't think they want or need that. Our old lot would be right interested in the possibility, you know, if any were left, and thems not the only ones. Probably get enough unwanted interest with the three a them." For it hadn't taken long for them to realize what M'Coury and Casino had implied was quite true; it was Goniff and Meghada AND Craig, all right and tight, and all here comfortable as toast with it. And if that seemed odd, it also seemed, well, nice.

M'Coury sat and watched as they worked out on the firing range, then as Luther worked with his knife and the boards. The two men were recovering from their injuries, but the slender blond obviously was far from par. She winced inside to see the effort it took to make a clean hit, at his little grunts of pain at the doing. {"Perhaps something else might be less strain on him, at least for now."}

"Do you usually just use the knife, or do you work with the shooting stars and points or some other stuff?" she asked in interest. "We've got those, if you wanted to practice with them. Mum makes Randy and me work with all of them; I mean, the knife is great, and you can get the penetration with the extra weight, but the stars are easier to disguise, and most people wouldn't recognize a throwing point if they saw one, so sometimes you can clip them to your belt or strap or purse or something like it's a decoration. Chief uses them as collar stays."

The two former agents looked at each other, then at her as she hopped up from the bench and went to open a cupboard on the wall. They were getting more accustomed to the decidedly odd conversation all the youngsters, (and truly, the adults as well) seemed to come out with, but still they found themselves being surprised daily. Inside the back and on the doors were a variety of throwing weapons. "And you use these, you and your brother?" Wye asked in some doubt.

"Oh, yes, along with all the rest, you know; well, pretty much the whole family does, except for the babies, of course."

Ecks felt perhaps he shouldn't take that any further, but he couldn't seem to help himself, "all the rest?" and then sat down heavily on the bench as the girl flipped open cabinets and cupboards - guns, knives, a wide variety of other weapons, and the last cupboard, well, Wye refrained from expressing his thoughts with some effort, {"Bloody 'ell! Bloody whips? Blimey!"}

She turned and saw their expression, Ecks actually paling, and hastily explained, "it's a good defensive weapon, especially these small ones. One of my cousins is a real hand with the Cossack whip, and she taught me. Here, I'll show you," and she proceeded to take a pear and place it on a table she sat in the center of the far end of the room; the table had a spike in the middle of it where the pear sat snuggly, so this wasn't the first time such a thing had occurred. And as for the pear, well, she'd taken it on herself to make sure there was food within Luther's reach pretty much all the time. Wye just rolled his eyes when each new offering made its ever-so-casual appearance, (never with any fanfare, but rather as if food just normally appeared out of nowhere to make itself available), but he found himself enjoying that shy grin his partner kept breaking out with; it was quite different than the usual world-weary, cynical one Ecks had worn for so long.

"It's all in the wrist, pretty much like a throwing weapon, but with a twist. Like this," and they watched as the pre-teen peeled the pear, one crack of the whip at a time, then sliced it neatly as well. "When I'm riding, I keep one with me, coiled on the saddle; most don't know enough to fear it properly, and it can turn the tables right fast." Her smiling face was all innocence when she turned back to them, found an oily rag and cleaned the whip before coiling it back and putting it away.

Wye now repeated his thoughts, but this time out loud, looking over at Ecks. "Bloody 'ell!" and an unexpected giggle surprised him.

"I'm sorry, you just sounded so much like Uncle Peter; that's probably his most emphatic comment on the weirdness of life. You tend to hear it most when Uncle Andrew is on a tear. Honestly, those two, they love each other like crazy, but if anyone can totally befuddle Uncle Peter, it's him. Aunt Caeide just laughs and says it's good for Peter to have someone befuddle him sometimes, that he tends to take things too seriously. It's funny, the three of them being so different from each other, and ending up together. I mean, she's loved Uncle Peter from her Internship year, when she just turned thirteen, but with him being older and all, and then the war, well, they didn't all settle together til almost ten years later. She says he was worth the wait, and Andrew too, though she didn't even know him til a lot later. Those two, Uncle Peter and Uncle Andrew, I mean, they met during the war, doing all kinds of hush hush stuff, you know. Their oldest twins, that's Jamie and Louisa, they're Randy's and my best friends. I like pretty much all my cousins, but they are my favorites! Kinda think Randy and Louisa will be making a match of it before too long; they have the look of it, you know."

Ecks was looking a little shell-shocked as he frequently did when he got in the way of one of the girl's verbal barrages. He'd never met anyone who talked quite so much, and include so many bombs right in amongst all the chatter. {"Can't afford to let your mind wander, either, else she's on to a new line and you're left behind trying to figure out where she is!"}

Wye looked at her, "just 'ow old are you and your brother and these cousins, young lady, if I might be so bold as to ask?"

The face turning to him was an odd mixture of innocence and knowing, "Randy is almost sixteen, Jamie and Louisa just turned fourteen, I'm twelve, turning thirteen in a couple of months," pretending not to hear the stark whisper from the Cockney, "twelve going on a 'undred, I'd say!"

A laugh from the doorway seemed to agree with him, as did the words from Craig Garrison, "and has been for a number of years. Never knew who we'd be sitting down to the dinner table with, the little girl or the grown-up, and believe me, that led to some memorable dinnertime discussions. More than one of these grey hairs I'm showing have her name on them. Alright everyone, dinner's on in about forty-five minutes; you'll want to get cleaned up". 

Wye was putting the finishing touches on his sprucing up when M'Coury lightly knocked and stepped in at his "come in".

"Mum says to ask you if you want to join us for some music tonight after dinner. It's just family, but it's usually fun, and sometimes they get to telling stories and all. You could stay as long as you want, leave whenever you get tired, without anyone being upset. There's sweets and nuts and such set out, and they break out the whisky and bourbon and there's wine if Actor is here, of course, and cigarettes if you want to smoke, so . . ." she turned, smile still on her face, as the door opened and Ecks walked in, drying his hair, no shirt, trousers in place but open, hanging low on his hips, his wound now being left unbandaged to let air get to it, and she inhaled sharply at the sight of that long angry scar slanted across his abdomen and upwards.

Ecks froze, flushing at the way he was half naked in front of the girl; he didn't seem to know what to do when she moved closer, her hand half extended as if to touch him where that painful ugliness marred his flesh, before she pulled it back, now clenched into a tight fist. Her eyes were stricken, trailing across the scar, then moved up, hard, intent, to meet his apprehensive eyes. Her voice was low and raspy, nothing of a child in her voice, sounding like a cross between a snarl and a hiss, "who? Is there someone I need to kill, Luther? Tell me, I'd be honored to do so," and for a long, long moment no one said anything.

Ecks cleared his throat awkwardly, "No, no, it's alright; it's in the past, and dealt with." She cocked her head over and to one side, looking for a moment like a bird of prey, or maybe like a wolf, considering those words, like she was trying to decide on their truth or falsehood. He licked his lips, and stumbled on with an explanation, "it was on a job. Me and Wye on one side for our group, this Illya Kuryakin and his partner, Napoleon Solo, on the other. Was even my own knife he turned against me; I already had it out. They don't usually go that far, the UNCLE agents, not the experienced ones like those two; usually like to take the competition alive at least when they can. Maybe they were out of those sleep darts they use, maybe Kuryakin figured he was just protecting his partner, you know. Can't much blame a man for that."

Wye was furious inside at the defense Ecks was giving Kuryakin; he still remembered kneeling by his young partner, seeing the agony on his face, seeing the life pouring out of him, knowing the action had been unreasonably harsh and unnecessary.

She looked him squarely in the eyes, gold brown meeting stone blue, and nodded slowly, "let me know if you change your mind, Luther; the offer stands," turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Wye turned on the younger man. "Bloody 'ell," Wye said helplessly, "why'd you tell 'er all that! Like you were making excuses for 'im; Ecks, 'e tried to gut you and came too bloody close!"

Ecks was still staring at the closed door, "She scared me, Wye. I swear she meant that, would 'ave taken it on if I'd told 'er that's what I wanted," and looked at his partner who was still standing there as if pole-axed. "Probably no chance she'd find out who on her own, even if she went asking, or that they'd ever come across each other, but what's the odds we'd meet up with this lot, either? Don't want to think about what could happen. She's just a kid, but wouldn't put it past her to make a try for him."

Wye considered that, and admitted, "no, no good would come of that." Frankly, HE wouldn't put it past her either, either the finding out or the making a try; he wasn't sure he'd put very much past her, though he wasn't meaning that in a bad way. He thought with a little training she'd make a damn fine agent, though he doubted her family would see it that way.

The blond man gulped and ran his fingers across the flesh below that wound, shuddered at the older scars there, glad she'd seen no worse than what she had, starting to do up his trouser front carefully and reached for the shirt laying across the bed. He drew a deep breath and made an heroic effort, so his voice was back to being cheeky, cocky like it often was, "Sides, she might let something slip and they'd find out we're still among the living; can't have that, now can we?"

His eyes drifted back toward the door, and he lost the cocky tone in his voice again, it becoming softer, hesitant, "don't know there's been anyone cept you who'd even think like that, taking him on, you know, because of me," and he turned back to look at Wye, total confusion in his blue eyes.

They did stay for the music and the story telling, and if they found it frequently odd, sometimes it was funny, and usually interesting. They learned more than they could have dreamed about the family, who seemed to trust them more than was reasonable. After a late night discussion in bed, Wye and Ecks decided to talk to Craig and Goniff about that.

The two listened and agreed, in general. "No, we're not usually so open with strangers. But, we're pretty good judges of people, you know, and what we don't pick up on, Meghada and M'Coury do. Especially M'Coury," he said with a snort of laughter.

Goniff countered, "aint that the truth!!! She can pick out a ringer 'alf-way down the street, she can, and can figure out 'ow to make 'im give up the goods just to a touch! They both say you're fine, family; that means you are, simple as that."

Wye looked once again between his partner and the slender Cockney who looked so much like him. "Did you ever figure out, I mean, just 'ow you two are related? Thought for a bit . . . But you're too young for 'im to be yours, less you started before you could shave, and if the likeness is thru 'is mum like 'e's always said, she probably only 'ad a good twelve years on you, so not likely you were 'ers."

Goniff's eyes were shocked, and just a touch of anger sparked across that hazy blue. "Ruddy 'ell, no, he'd not 'ave been mine, and I wasn't 'ers," with a fast look at Ecks, "no insult intended, you understand. Just, knew first 'and what it meant, coming on the wrong side like that! Didn't start quite that young either, no, but when I did, took care there were no tikes likely. Didn't want someone else . . ." He took a shaky draw of his cigarette, calming down a little. "And never dallied with anyone that much older than me, that I recall, and never fancied blondes like 'e said she was."

He spared a wry grin toward Garrison, "cept for Craig 'ere, acourse. And, like I said, I took care, always. Well, till my 'Gaida, and somehow, that was different, and decided between us up front; 'er, 'er family, they look at things different; any tike wouldna been shuffled off, left to fend for 'imself, wouldna been treated any different, woulda just been another of the cousins, welcome as all the rest, gathered in all tight and snug. As to the relationship, now, see, that's 'ard to say; I'm most likely one of Andrew Redmond's lot; 'e was the one who 'ired my mum as 'ouseold 'elp when times were lean for the family; my 'father', such as 'e was, though 'e was married to my mum, was eager for the money, even knowing all the talk, though 'e blamed 'er right enough when I came along, looking the spitting image of the Redmond's. Still, Andrew, 'e and 'is brothers, 'ell, most likely 'is old man and uncles too were all busy blokes, spent more time in someone else's bed than in their own. Come across at least three, no four, in person, outside the 'official family', if you know what I mean."

He gave an abrupt hmmph! "One tried to impersonate me; woulda gotten away with it, least for awhile, if it 'adn't been for 'Gaida catching on right up front. Fore I even met 'er, though, I ended up impersonating Charles Redmond; ruddy bastard was a traitor, ended up catching a bullet from British Intelligence right before 'e was to deliver a set of fake plans to the Jerry; they sent me in with Craig and the guys to do the job. Almost got my 'ead taken off on that one too. 'e was Andrew's brother, supposedly, but maybe cousin since the brothers tended to swap beds even among the family, and Andrew never liked his own bed much, and doubt 'e got that anyplace strange. Dark 'air, 'e 'ad, not light, but otherwise close enough for me to pass."

Craig laughed, remembering, "Actor thought he'd lose his mind, teaching Goniff to impersonate all those aristocratic airs, but he pulled it off!"

"So, could be 'is mum mighta been one of Andrew's lot, or one of the others; like I said, they spread it around the East End right 'eavy. So, best I can say, probably a nephew of sorts, a cousin maybe." He gave the younger Ecks a kind grin, "certainly the best one of the lot I've come across, by a mile! And the only one I'd think to welcome 'ere with the family!"

Ecks found himself feeling oddly pleased by that comment, even though it didn't sound like he had much competition. {"Lot of wasters and loose screws, sounds like to me!"} he thought, suppressing a snicker, thinking that was a rather harsh condemnation considering he was the one giving it.

They stayed another week, til Ecks was pretty much back to his best; they had a job lined up, and though they were anxious to get on with it, still, they had been equally reluctant to say goodbye. Garrison had arranged for transport to the airport, agreeing when Wye suggested none of the family accompany them there to say their farewells.

"Business we're in, less you and yours are seen with us, well, that's probably best. And better Ecks and Goniff not be seen too much together either; that's likely to cause comment you don't need any more than us."

Garrison agreed, in principle anyway, but he knew the family would be reluctant to say goodbye to these two. Somehow, they'd slid into easy slots within the family, and they'd be missed. M'Coury, in particular, would miss Luther, as she alone called him, the rest following Wye's lead in calling the younger man 'Ecks'.

Meghada had said, last night, that she'd miss the both of them, though the food budget could now go back to its more normal level. "Eats like you, Goniff, along with looking like you. And with M'Coury going to such pains to make sure there's something tempting always in his reach. . ."

Craig had laughed at that, not thinking before he spoke, "reminds me of you in the early days, Meghada, always making sure Goniff was fed . . ." and stopped, at that amused look on Meghada's face.

"Aye, I did notice the resemblence there too."

Craig looked at Goniff and frowned slightly as he turned back to Meghada, "he's quite a bit older," watching that amused look on Meghada's face turn to a grin, "he's not exactly in a legal or safe line of work," the grin now growing rapidly, "they're probably cousins of some sort," now with the laugh breaking out.

"Sort of like Randy and Louisa?" knowing just where those first cousins were headed unless things took a unexpected dramatic turn. "Let it be, loves; no sense getting bothered by what may or not be, and not like we'd have any say in it anyway. Unless you want to call Kevin and see if he can dig up some of his old arguments. Course, you remember just how much THOSE acomplished! And just how much older Kevin is than either Ciena or Coura. And speaking of a legal or safe line of work, how goes the negotiations for that new 'consultation' of yours, Craig? Did anyone remember to check whether that painting you're supposed to be recovering ever belonged to the person who's hiring you to do the 'recovering'? We were lucky we found out that little bit last time with enough breathing room to get it back in place before that nice little lady ever knew it had gone missing!"

The men groaned in remembrance; that had been the closest they'd been to disaster in a long time. They still couldn't believe someone could have run that kind of a con on them, with all their experience. It had been quite a blow to their collective ego's, even if they HAD come out untarnished. Luckily it turned out the 'client' had just been a clever opportunist, not one of their lengthy list of old enemies trying to bring them down. Much easier to deal with, that was.

The jobs came for the partners, mostly working out well, enough for them to keep body and soul together, even with the amount of food Ecks put away. Wye and Ecks tried to stay within guidelines they'd set for themselves as to who they were willing to work for, what they were willing to do, though they'd both admit they weren't as restrictive as many might have prefered them to be. Ecks tried to keep his promise to Wye, not to die on him again; Wye tried to keep his promise not to leave Ecks alone.

Still, no matter what they were doing, it seemed they ended back at The Cottages once or twice a year, always being welcomed with warm smiles and open arms. M'Coury wasn't always there, in fact, not at all during her thirteenth year, what with one of her Internship being half way around the world. That's not to say there was no communication; a post office box had been set up through the Clan, and occasional letters passed back and forth. Both sides had to be rather vague in details about what they were getting up to, but still, the connection was maintained, never seeming to weaken.

It was on one of the visits that year that Wye and Ecks heard about that run-in with UNCLE, and they laughed later that night, at the youngsters confounding not only the field agents, but Waverly himself. M'Coury's interaction with Kuryakin made Eck's breath catch in his throat, and Wye shake his head, both of them remembering her question, "Luther, is there some one I need to kill?" Ecks was more relieved than ever at the not-quite-truth of his explanation of his wound.

In her fourteenth year, she was there when they arrived, and it was as if the intervening time just disappeared; she chattered on and on, dropping bombs into her conversation as often as not, still with the sharp turns and zigzags, and Ecks still getting caught unawares. Wye was starting to realize she used that conversational mode much as he himself used his aimless nattering-on, as a means to an end; while he used it mostly as a distraction, he thought she did that as well, but also used it as a way of conveying information it might be awkward to do otherwise; he caught a gleam in her eye that told him she knew that he knew, and they both found it an amusing secret between the two of them.

But it was Randy, sprawled on the floor, his head in the lap of his Louisa, who threw them both for a total loop when, while telling them about the upcoming festival at Haven, he undertook to explain the aunts and uncles and the cousins - well, the immediate ones, anyway. By the time he was finished, both Ecks' and Wye's heads were spinning.

Wye squinted, trying to put it all into place, "so your mum's sister is married . . ." to be quickly correct with a "Bonded to, we don't do much marrying, not by Outlander standards; we tend to go for something more meaningful, more permanent, if you know what I mean."

Wye wasn't sure he did, but he manfully started again, "so your mum's sister is Bonded to both that Peter and Andrew we met first time we were 'ere; and this Jamie and your Louisa and all the rest are your cousins through them. HOW many?"

He was told, but it was explained, "twins, you know, all of them. Well, our grandparents on mum's side, they 'ave thirteen, three sets of twins and one of triplets in there."

"And 'er other sister, this Coura your sister was named after, she's Bonded with this Kevin, but another sister is too? And your uncle Patrick, 'e's Bonded with a farther away cousin, but to this James, too? And . . ."

He looked over at Ecks, and back at Randy, "'ow do you keep all that straight? 'Ow you're all related and such. I mean, who's TOO close, well, I mean," flushing, realizing just how rude that question was. Not that he minded being rude, just not with these people who seemed to becoming more and more like family, something neither of the partners had otherwise.

Randy laughed, Louisa right along with him, enjoying Wye's perplexed expression. "We're used to 'aving to remember things like that, I mean, who's related to who and 'ow. The Clan is big on oral 'istory, and we can all pretty much recite genealogy for 'ours if there's a need. And for the 'too close', well, 'too close' pretty much only includes parents and children, and full siblings. Clan's been fine with all else since the beginning, and no harm done. Coura and Ciena, being sisters, both being Bonded to Kevin, now that's more unusual, but the Council didn't put up any roadblocks; well, there, Coura and Kevin are Bonded, and Ciena and Kevin are Bonded, but not all three to each other, so it's not like with Da and Mum and Dad where they're all three Bonded to each other, like with Aunt Caeide and Uncle Peter and Uncle Andrew. There's some of us related in a dozen or more ways, you know? That's why except for grandparents and direct aunts and uncles, we mostly call everyone else 'cousin'; keeps things less complicated." The expression on the two visitors faces showed just how 'uncomplicated' they found all that.

Later that night, as they were putting dishes away, M'Coury whispered to her older brother, "thanks! I owe you!" He grinned at her, "well, there was no subtle way for YOU to work all that into a conversation. Anyway, you do subtle about as well as the rest of the females in the family. Just hope they, 'E picked up on the important parts." Her grin matched his own, and they finished tidying away and joined the others for music and story-telling. 

She was away for their second visit that year, to their mutual disappointment, and the next year, when she was fifteen, they came only once and when her mother let her know they were there, she spent thirty-six hours traveling to come in on a redeye special in time to spend the last three days together. They were both drawn and tired looking, and she worried, but was assured it was just that they'd just gotten off a long job, though Wye was limping heavily and was obviously hurting some, and Luther fretting about that. She concentrated on keeping Luther fed, and Wye entertained, listened to their stories, sharing some of her own; they found themselves laughing together for the good parts, offering a willing ear for the other parts. When the two men decided to stay an extra few days til Wye was moving better, she put off or cancelled her own prior engagements in order to stay til after they'd left.

She took another couple of days to do some heavy thinking; a couple of their stories, she could have easily seen her working a similar job, but on the other side; she determined she'd need to make some changes to make sure that didn't happen. Her mother had told her that story, the crossed missions on the coast of France during the war, where only quick reflexes had kept her da from getting a knife to the gut, all at mum's hand. M'Coury saw that scar in her mind again, the one Luther had been so upset she'd seen, and shuddered at the thought.

Funny enough, perhaps, a similar discussion took place with the guys; they'd seen that possibility just as clearly, and weren't any too happy about it. It rather narrowed the employment opportunities, but Garrison started recommending them for a job here and there, jobs that didn't seem so likely to have them coming up against any of the family, and that filled the gap. They wondered if he'd known about their qualms about such a meeting in the field, but it didn't seem the kind of thing to ask, so they didn't.

Years sixteen and seventeen, she managed to be there for both their visits, and the farewells were somehow more difficult than ever before. Wye had found considerable amusement in the fact that Ecks and the girl now answered a question or comment from each other that, much of the time, hadn't even been said out loud; he found himself filling in the gaps in his mind, amazed at how easy it was to do.

In her seventeenth year, they met unexpectedly, her picking up a manuscript that needed safe-transport and translating, with another individual intent on getting hold of it first, and them working a job that had led them into difficulties of their own. They had joined forces, and both jobs were successful; they had found it surprisingly easy to adjust to working together, the three of them, and had spent an extra couple of days in a safe location just relishing the time together before going their separate ways. Wye found himself thinking of it almost like a family vacation, though he'd never experienced one of those, any more than Ecks had.

Halfway through year eighteen she got a call from her parents, and she flew into the airport nearest the town of Banningham, where Wye met her at the airport.

"How bad is it, Wye?" Her parents had been sketchy on details, but long on urgency, and her throat was tight with worry.

Wye glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, "worse than I'd like it, worse than 'e's wanting to let on. 'E's getting over the physical part, though 'e's still laid up, but I can't seem to pull 'im outta the slump, if you know what I mean. Appetite's gone," and she threw him a incredulous look.

"Yes, I know; when 'e aint eating, talking about what 'e just ate, or nattering on about what 'e is thinking about eating next, well . . . And 'e's not talking bout other things either, not like 'e usually does. It's like something's gnawing away at 'im, and 'e won't say what, if 'e even knows. Thought about taking 'im back to The Cottages, he wouldn't 'ear of that, and usually 'e's right eager. Talked to your folks, they suggested this. I 'aven't told 'im you're coming; don't know 'ow 'e'll take it," he warned her. "Might try to send you away," and he got a brief feeling of amusement at the grim and determined look in her face when she said, "well, maybe he'll try!" He hesitated, his loyalty and his worry in heavy conflict.

"M'Coury? There's things . . . Well, there's things you don't know. Things I can't tell you, talk to you about less 'e does first. Just, I don't want to see 'im 'urt." And while that told her nothing, less than nothing, in some regards, it told her there was a real chance of that happening, and she determined to be very careful til she knew more. She sat back in the seat, breathing in the damp air, determination and resolve filling her, "that's the last thing I'd want, Wye. I'll try to make sure that doesn't happen," and he nodded, {"yes, she'll do that, if it's possible. Course that may depend more on the boy than on anything else."}


	3. Mr. Ecks, Miss M, and Mr. Wye

He was shocked when she appeared at his bedroom door, shocked and angry and dismayed and somehow, fearful, though the last made no immediate sense to her. Still, she was adamant that she had nowhere else she needed to be, and since he wouldn't come to The Cottages to mend, she'd been delegated by the family to take The Cottages to him. And she did. To his bewilderment, and very vocal indignation, and his secret shy delight, he found himself cosseted, and fed, and teased, and challenged, and entertained, and above all, cared about. Not that Wye didn't do all that, he did, but it just wasn't quite the same; M'Coury seemed as much a force of nature as her mother was. And he was careful, ever so careful, that she never saw, never knew. Well, he'd always been that, with everyone except Wye, once he'd left that place, as much as possible, except when he was stuck in hospital and such when he wasn't given a choice. But on that last job, well, things had gone wrong, and someone had seen, and all he'd heard in his mind all these years, even whispers in hospital sometimes, well, then he'd heard it out loud, and he didn't think he could bear it to heard it from her, to see her face. So it wasn't intentional when it all fell apart. 

Within a few days she turned her eye in a broader focus, and decided individual pampering wasn't all that was needed around there. After realizing she'd been eating, and trying to tempt Luther with a less than appealing revolving menu of pizza and Chinese take-out and burgers from that little place on the edge of town and tinned soups and stews, and that she'd had a choice between two threadbare towels when she took her shower, and that there WAS no spare set of sheets or pillow cases with which to change the bed, Wye having pitched the set Luther had bled all over and then finished the job by upchucking right in the middle, she had walked through the small house and taken stock. While there were many shortcomings, most of the rest could be overlooked for the moment, but the food selection had to change, along with a few extra items! She thought it through while Luther napped, and decided on a plan of action, at least a start. The package from home had arrived earlier, so she at least had a few more clothes and some personal things, enough to get her by. She'd pretty much arrived with an overnight case and no more, and she was tired of using her trench coat as a robe and rinsing her clothes out in the sink every night!

Wye had been out doing the shopping per the list she'd given him, the cupboard being rather bare of the things she thought a recovering invalid (or perhaps any sensible person) should be eating (and those few that were there possibly left from the prior tenant, they were so old; the oatmeal she could see had more weevils than oats, and she couldn't even get the top off that tin of Ovaltine), and overly full of things she wasn't sure were even edible.

{"Bright orange Crispy Cheesy Curls? Really?? Was that supposed to be a food, or maybe bait for the mice they would surely have in a rental house of this age, unless even the mice found the pickings here too slim!"}. She snickered to herself, imagining a steam of disgruntled mice, tiny hobo bundles on the ends of twigs over their shoulders, fleeing for the promise of better food!

She was finishing the breakfast dishes, thinking the floors could use a good mopping too, not that she was usually drawn to such domestic things, but there were things crunching under the soles of her shoes! Yechh! Well, Wye had been occupied with caring for their invalid, of course, but things had slipped rather badly. {"And surely all that dust laying around can't be good for the lungs, and I have to see if there is a laundry place around close for linens and clothes and such, or only that place they take their suits. I don't mind hand laundering, Mrs. Wilson taught me all the tricks there, but I'll need proper soap for that, not that hard bar of stuff in the bath, and a place to hang the bigger things; I didn't see a clothes line in the yard. I never thought myself overly particular, but seems I've more of Mum in me than I thought! She always said a Dragon was more than just flame and fury, and that there were many ways to go about protecting a treasure; guess she's right after all. I'll have to tell her the next time we talk; bet she'll chuckle a bit over that!"}

She shook her head and brought her mind back to the dishes before she started on what else was needed to make this house really habitable, even pleasant. It seemed a bit premature to think about all that, she knew, though she did think the walls would be better for a good coat of paint. Wye said this was pretty much just the base they used in between jobs, and they usually changed every few months, not just houses but towns as well; she wondered just how long they had before they were due to move again. Maybe next time something with a bit of space for a garden if they were to be there long enough for a harvest . . . She laughed softly to herself, and muttered, "so much for not being overly domestic!" She had a shopping list of her own, for later when Wye would be here to keep an eye on their lad; she wasn't sure Wye would quite be up for shopping for sheets and towels and other such things. 

Ecks heard her puttering around in there, safely out of the way, and had decided he wanted a shower, then, not later when Wye was there to help him. He was a little tired of everyone thinking he need their help all the time; bout time he started doing things for himself, he told himself firmly. His strength was not quite the equal to his ambition, and she'd heard the resounding thud as he hit the floor, and was there in a heartbeat. He'd been too stunned from the fall to think about covering himself, even if there'd been anything close at hand to do the job. He'd grabbed the dish towel from where she'd dropped it as soon as he came came to his senses, and let her help him back into bed, but he knew she'd seen. Now, he'd be hearing her say all those things he never wanted to hear from her, and if she didn't say them, well, he knew she'd be thinking them, and then she'd be gone, or maybe she'd stay but still be thinking those things, and he'd see that, and that would be worse . . . He was shaking, working himself into a tizzy, withdrawing, preparing himself for her reaction. But, somehow, no matter what he'd been expecting, it hadn't been her sheer fury and outrage on his behalf. And when she'd breathed through that, at least somewhat . . .

"You said it was just a job, he turned your knife on you in a fight. That Kuryakin might have been just protecting his partner." Her voice was increasingly low, thick. "Luther, that's not 'protecting his partner'; that's deliberate, would have taken time, the scars in a pattern, planned. . ."

He inhaled sharply, thinking again that he'd not intended her to ever see him like this, never wanted to have to explain, but he knew her too well to think she'd let this pass; he couldn't let her keep that thought in mind, no telling what she'd do.

"Wasn't Kuryakin, it wasn't, I swear. Was years before," and although he also had never intended to tell her, somehow he was, like a lever had opened and it all pouring out, bitter, like gall, all that had happened, all those years ago. Somewhere in a corner of her mind she recognized that his voice kept changing, now the familiar tones she found so pleasing, well, when he wasn't telling her horrible things like he was now, then suddenly the voice of someone much younger, and the differences made her shudder in realization that she was, in essence, listening to two different people. Well, maybe not different, so much as the same person but at different times of his life. 

 

She was sitting on the side of bed, not quite touching him because it seemed he didn't want that, not right now. "She intended much more, you know, she told me all she had in mind. Said the last she couldn't finish til the organization was tired of dealing with a worthless mess like me, til she convinced them I was of no more use to them. Told me . . ." and he couldn't pull the words out, at the horror she had in store for him, swallowing convulsively. "But she knew I'd not survive that and they'd be mad cause I couldn't do any jobs if I was dead - like that was just another example of how obstinate I was! But this, it wouldn't kill me, just mark me up first, draw out the pattern, then take a bit here, a bit there . . .But then the rest, little by little, til there was nothing left, that's what she intended, afore she . . . Three times I woke up with her standing there, that scalpel in her hand, them strapping me down like she told them. No one cared, no one came when I screamed, she was in charge, she just had the doctors patch me up til next time. Wasn't til Wye came . . ."

She caught him, steadied him as he threw himself forward and staggered to the bathroom, going to his knees, gagging and throwing up all that was in his stomach. She held him, supporting him til he was done, then washed his face, helped him rinse his mouth, waited til he could move again and got him back to the bed. And she held him close as he shook like with a fever, pulling a quilt around him, warming him, murmuring little nothings, tiny bits of what she thought, what she felt for him, more in Celtic than in English since none of it was planned, coming from deep inside her. For she raged inside, for him, for that young boy, and she thanked the Sweet Mother for Wye. 

"And no one stopped her, got him away from her? The doctors just kept patching up her butchery and nothing else?? How could that be?" She kept her voice low; he'd finally fallen into an exhausted sleep by the time Wye got back home.

"Girl, she was the one in charge, the 'curator'; 'ad the power of life and death over the whole lot a them, not just the youngsters but the staff just as much. Weren't a one gonna raise a peep, no matter what she got up to for fear they'd be the next to catch her fancy. Those above 'er, well, she got results, that's what they cared about, not too inclined to look at the details, though what idiot thought it was a fine notion to put their best 'interrogator' in charge of a bunch of kids, don't ask me! 'Is folks were gone, killed on the job, and before you go thinking there'd be friends to take 'im in, look after 'im, well, that aint the way it worked. Didn't want no one getting too close to anyone else; said that 'detracted from the loyalty to the cause!'. Aint even like the parents paid all that mind to 'im in the first place; the cause, always the bloody cause. Still, it was better than after they were gone, that's for bloody sure!"

"You stayed with them, even after you found out." He looked at her quickly, and no, it wasn't a condemnation, not yet, more a earnest need for understanding.

"I coulda got out, maybe. 'Adn't been with them very long, still more an outside contractor than anything else; didn't know so much they'd be afraid I'd go mouthing about things; they mighta let me leave, if not, I coulda slipped away; I was good enough for that. But, they'd never 'ave let me take 'im with me, 'e'd been with them all 'is life, they never let any of them go, and I couldn't 'ave gotten 'im out safely, and I couldn't leave 'im behind. I just couldn't."

And she nodded, understanding, respecting him for that, what he'd sacrificed to help a badly damaged and vulnerable boy he didn't even know. Her jaw tightened as she thought to what she'd heard, what she couldn't get out of her mind.

"Tell me she'd dead, Wye. She needs to be dead. If she isn't, we need to make it so. And if she truly is, perhaps there's a way to bring her back, so we can kill her again, and again and again." The thickness of her voice, as if it were clogged with tears and rage and perhaps, from the sound of it, broken glass. His voice was still the broad Cockney, his tone casual, though his eyes were anything but. This was a new pain to her, an old one to him; never gone, never forgotten, but old enough it felt like an old wound, taken almost to the death, but not quite.

He still remembered when he found the boy, soon after Wye had arrived at that place to look for a likely candidate or two for the new training program he was supposed to be working on, found him, whimpering and wild-eyed from pain and shock, all but broken in mind and body and spirit. Just a small one, he was, small of stature, of course, but also bone thin from lack of care; Wye had been shocked to discover he was already in his teens; he would have thought the boy much younger. He'd had to argue hard to get the youngster released to him, him and another one, and then only after the 'curator' had her mishap. SHE would never have authorized his release; he'd been her pet project, after all, that bitch who fancied herself an artist, a sculpter. The other boy he trained, quickly and efficiently, right from the beginning, well enough his superiors were pleased with him, enough to overlook his taking his time with the 'sickly one' as long as he kept training the others. This one, he'd helped to heal and grow stronger, and then gradually started teaching him, rebuilding what had been battered and broken in him. Well, as much as was possible; there were certain things that could never be mended.

"She's dead, alright. 'Ad an accident on the stairs, she did. Fell, broke 'er neck, most everything else in 'er body too. Surprising, there only being just those four flights to the steps, and with landings in between each; doctors there said she 'ad to 'ave landed just so to do all that. They were fine with signing off on it though, seemed pleased to do so, and those 'igher up never questioned it. It all 'appened just a bit after I came on to look for likely candidates for the training program; never 'ad more than 'alf a dozen words with 'er, even."

He didn't look at her, pouring himself another drink, holding it up to look at the amber liquor in the lamplight. "Kill 'er over and over again!" he scoffed at her gently, shaking his head. "See, that's the problem with you young people today; an excess of enthusiasm trying to make up for doing something right the first time. Do something right the first time, no need to keep doing it over and over," getting a rather damp chuckle out of her.

"I'll try to remember that." His back was to her, but that didn't stop her; she reached out and put her arms around him, laying her head into his back, giving him a warm, fiercely tight hug. "He was so lucky it was you who found him, someone who cared. He's lucky to have you, Wye."

The tall Cockney turned towards her; he looked a little uncomfortable but he gave an amazingly shy smile, and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder, "well, that goes both ways, it does; I've always thought myself lucky to 'ave found 'im. And I'm not the only one 'e's lucky to 'ave, maybe." And the quiet assurance in her face, her tear-filled eyes, told him that was so.

When he awoke, his reaction was probably to be expected, but she was prepared to argue in defense of what was between them, what had been growing between them for years now. And argue she did, wearing him down to the point where he wondered if she might not be just a little right in what she was saying. Maybe he was just deep-down tired, maybe it was that she was just deep-down stubborn. "And if we had been together, and this had happened after, perhaps at the hands of Thrush, or one of the others, or perhaps a car crash or something like that, would you have thought me to leave you, to think there was nothing of worth left about you after you'd gotten those scars? Shall I tell you some of the things I value about you? I think I can give a reasonable list now; I've been forming it for quite a few years, after all, and I imagine I will add new things to the list again and again. Will you give me a chance? Will you let us seek out the good that can be, together?"

 

And when she asked, and after Ecks had said it was alright, Wye told her of those days, how the boy had eventually healed and become strong, had grown into a young man, but had closed himself off to the possibility of contact with others, fearing their reaction to the scars. Told her how one of the bloody doctors at a hospital he'd been in after an injury had even asked him why he'd cut himself up that way, tried to say there was something wrong with his mind for doing all that. How he'd even shied away from touching himself any more than he had to, becoming increasingly repulsed by how he saw himself, a reflection of how he felt others would see him.

"And how did you discover what would help, Wye, how to give him some comfort, some pleasure." Wye's eyes flared, freezing in anxiety, {"this is where she tears me apart, tells me I took advantage. How can she understand there was no one else 'e'd let close? Coo, she 'as the power to maybe send me away, and I don't think I can bear that, not less she's sure she'll stay with 'im instead, always, and make sure 'e's alright. I don't know I trust 'er that much, that I can trust anybody that much, not with 'im. And what if she decides she can't 'andle it, what about 'im then??"}

It was as if she seemed to sense what he was thinking, and she stretched out a hand to touch him on the forearm. "Perhaps, however you were able to learn how to help, in the beginning, perhaps you could guide me to see if I can learn how I maybe can help too. Not instead of you, never that, but along with you."

His downcast eyes and faltering voice tore at her heart, and she touched his cheek softly, "and if in the giving of comfort and pleasure you found ways to receive that as well, did you think I would condemn that? I think that was a treasure you gave to him, that it could be the two of you sharing. That's a healing thing in itself, you know."

When he could see that Ecks was increasingly comfortable with her being there, increasingly content, he told her of his plan to maybe take on a job or two on his own, citing the need to refill the coffers. He didn't tell her of his plan to eventually strike out on his own, leave them together, once he was comfortable in leaving Ecks in her loving hands. He didn't have to; she knew what he had in mind, and she wanted no part of the scheme. She could see it far too easily, him off and gone, only a monthly portion of his earnings, a large portion most likely, arriving like clockwork, and maybe an occasional letter, and she made no bones about it, got quite agitated at the idea.

"I don't want you to leave, he doesn't want you to leave, Wye."

"But I thought . . ." "I have no desire to take your place, Wye, I just want to add what I can for him. You're partners, in so many ways. He doesn't want you to leave; you're his rock, his center; he'd pine away without you. And I certainly don't want you gone. Perhaps I can be a part, perhaps not, we won't know til we try, give it some time. Slow and easy, just like you did with him when you were trying to give him comfort. If that doesn't come for us, without making any of us, particularly him, uncomfortable, unhappy, well, then it doesn't. That bedroom isn't the only place I can stay, you know, the couch will serve, just as it has been, and if not, this isn't the only house available either. You said you move every few months anyway. And I can still be of use to him, to you, help, bring comfort in other ways. That's what's important to me; that I truly NEED to do!"

Her smile was warm and real, "I am a very good cook you know; and a fine hand with a knife, and a gun, and a whip, and a bit more. And there's other things, twixt and tween; I've a rather broad education. And it seems I'm more domestic than I would have thought. Some of the work I do can be done here, the translating and editing and such, and there's more I could seek out if I choose. We both love him, Wye. That's nothing out of the usual with my people; you've met my parents, my aunt and uncles. They built a fine and rich life together, them and many others like them. Perhaps, together, we can build something just as fine, just as rich, for HIM."

<>p>And Wye stared at her, and the slow rumble of laughter mixed with tears came to him, and he rubbed his hands briskly over his face to hide his emotion. {"'e was so cheated, 'e deserved so much more than what 'appened, what was taken from 'im, and not just by that bitch, but all of them, starting with those bloody idiots 'e 'ad for parents! Did w'at I could, but it always pained me to know 'ow much I couldn't give 'im, couldn't let 'im 'ave. Maybe now, just maybe . . ."}

 

Six months later, in a small house in a welcoming community that wouldn't question their frequent comings and goings, a tidy house with a clothes line and newly started garden in the rear - 

A low eager whisper, "M'Coury, you awake?"

A sleepy voice replied, murmuring equally low, "no"; that got a muffled snort of laughter from a third voice.

The first voice spoke again, suspicion evident in his tone, "no? You're sure? So you're talking in your sleep?"

M'Coury whispered, "yes, exactly. Now be careful, you don't want to wake me up, do you?"

Silence prevailed for no more than a couple of minutes, "M'Coury, you awake now?" The voice had just a bit of a whine in it now.

She tried to respond in a stern voice, but a faint giggle came through, and the third voice remarked, "thought M'Coury said no."

The plaintive voice came back, "yes, but that was forever ago."

She sighed, but with a smile on her face, and in her slowly opening eyes, "alright, Luther, I'm awake. Now, just what did you want to say?"

His arms were close around her waist now, and he snuggled just a bit closer to her back, "just thinking."

Her smile got broader, "Yes? Just thinking what?"

"Just thinking maybe pancakes sounded like a fine breakfast? Maybe with an egg or two. Maybe with some bacon or sausage. A bit of broiled tomato would go nice, too. And some of those hot biscuits like you made last week; those were really good, with the jam and butter and all. And maybe . . ." She chuckled as his voice got dreamier and dreamier as that breakfast in his mind started filling the kitchen table, him already seated there in his imagination.

The third voice gave a groan, amusement showing loud and clear, "and a bicarb for afters? Ecks, that appetite a yours is gonna eat us outta 'ouse and 'ome one a these days."

The first voice pleaded, "Now, Wye, don't tell me you couldn't fancy a bite to eat. You've always been one for a good start to the day."

Wye sat up, stretched, and ruffled the hair on the blond head still ensconced on that middle pillow of the wide bed, "seems you've already 'ad a good start to your day, duck, not an 'our ago; and a bite to eat is one thing, clearing the cupboards is another. Who gets the shower first?"

M'Coury spoke up, "and that would be me, if I'm to start on this wee bit of breakfast our bottomless pit seems to have in mind." She sat up, rotated her shoulders and neck, sighing with pleasure; she'd had a pretty good start to her day as well.

Long talented fingers caressed her shoulder and arm, "You lost your nightgown again, M'Coury; it was a pretty thing too."

"Aye, well, Luther, it can't have gotten too far," she leaned over the side of the bed, fishing around with one outstretched arm. "Here it is, see?" She tossed it on the chair beside the bed, pulling her housecoat from the seat and put it on, then swung her legs over the side and stood up. "You can decide who's up next; first one in the kitchen gets to stir the batter."

"And maybe kiss the cook?"

That got an arched brow and a teasing look, "aye, maybe." She exchanged looks with the older dark haired man with the receeding hairline and the prickly moustache now propped up on the pillows on the far side of the bed watching the exchange indulgently. "If Wye says it's alright. You know what he said about me overindulging that appetite of yours," and she whisked her way to the bathroom, turning on the water to wash her face.

A voice followed after, "aaahh, M'Coury, he was just talking about . . ." He'd started to say 'food', but he didn't want her trying to restrict him there either. {"Now, just what could Wye have been talking about that I wouldn't mind the two of them holding the reins in for? Umm?"} His face brightened, "he was talking about washing dishes, that's what he didn't want me doing too much of!"

Her incredulous face popped back out of the bathroom, "washing dishes??" looking over at a highly diverted Wye.

"Well, acourse, have to watch my hands, don't I; delicate instruments they are, can't have them getting all wrinkly, you know," and he didn't quite duck in time to avoid getting the damp face towel thrown right at his head. Wye used the towel to give him a good head-scrub, and they were still laughing when she came back out, dressed for the day.

Her eyes still held amusement, but more, they held contentment, and love. The past few months had held challenges, for them all, but one by one they'd faced them, found ways to triumph. Patrick had gotten them in touch with a top notch urologist with experience in treating injuries and the resultant scar tissue; a trip made to Haven gave them the opportunity to browse through that Library to find ways to increase their shared pleasures; a tweaking of their diet, eliminating a thing or two that was probably causing problems, adding other things that would be beneficial; and intertwined with all that, a gradual knowing of each other and experience in sharing, becoming more confident in each other's acceptance and caring.

It had all worked, and now, although they found every day special in its own way, there was a great deal of sameness in the affection shown between the three. Just like she'd told Wye, they were building something fine, something rich, and though they'd intended it to be for him, their mutual love, it turned out to be equally true for them as well. She chuckled to herself, turned and headed to the kitchen. {"Think I'm going to have to be buying groceries again. Mrs. Baxter's going to be teasing me again, asking just how many I have in my family. Always makes out she can never believe it's just us three!"} It wouldn't be a problem, though; this was a Clan village, Family and Friends, and those around them well-inclined toward them. They were considering taking on new jobs, mostly for the Clan if not entirely, now that their lives were coming together so well. She smiled to herself, thinking of how a case of mistaken identity had led her to this, the growing into her own identity, letting her be all a Dragon truly could be, a Dragon rich with her own treasure, her own treasure trove to guard and cherish and protect and love.


	4. Of All The Gin Joints In All The World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where UNCLE makes a reappearance in their lives.

She knew they'd been seen, though her line of vision was such that she was pretty sure her guys didn't know it yet; she doubted if she'd been recognized; she just wasn't that memorable; unfortunately, both of THEM were, especially to the two UNCLE agents. After all, those two had been instrumental, directly or indirectly, in the supposed deaths of her family.

{"SHIT! SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!!!"} She refrained from saying it out loud, but that didn't mean she wasn't saying it. Saying it most emphatically. Of all the rotten luck! So far they hadn't run into each other, not since M'Coury had been twelve, going on thirteen. They wouldn't have run into each other now, except for that blasted plane blowing a gasket or something, and her and her guys being stuck in this best-forgotten corner of the not-quite-free world til it could be repaired. Wouldn't have met even then, probably, if her guys hadn't been overcome with a longing for Guiness, which just wasn't carried by too many places around here. Well, that was Albania for you.

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. Well, really, just Illya Kuryakin; he was the perpetual thorn in her paw. Their paths had crossed just once, in person, though he had impacted her life before that. Oh, it was easy to wax philosophical about it - if he hadn't had that encounter with Luther, if Luther hadn't been hurt. No, amend that, if HE hadn't tried to gut Luther! (Alright, so she wasn't so good at this detached philosophical stuff!). Then, maybe Luther and Wye would have been somewhere else, doing who knows what, maybe still working for Zee.

They might not have been at that little airport, just in time to coincide with the return of M'Coury and her family, just in time to be attacked and Luther's wound to be reopened and him bleeding all over the place, and inadvertently rescued by the family thinking it was her father bleeding in that hallway. Might never had been rushed away, to be cared for, to eventually become like part of the family, (as was only fitting, since it turns out he was likely cousin or nephew or some such to her father), to eventually become HER family, both Luther and Wye.

Well, all that be as it may, she'd not been happy with THIS ONE when she heard about that first encounter; she hadn't been happy with him when she met him that first time, in the company of his partner and two compatriots and his boss. And, she bloody well wasn't happy to see him here! Sorry, she was just like that, pissy at times, especially where Luther, otherwise known as Mr. Ecks, was concerned.

She heaved a deep sigh of annoyance. {"I suppose I'm supposed to do the grown up thing here, the civilized thing!"} Then she brightened, {"but I'm Clan! We're not known for being civilized! No one would really expect it of me, after all."} She looked over her options and the most tempting of her choices were either to tip the bad guys the wink, letting them know Solo and Kuryakin were in the joint, or to walk over there and do some damage, up close and personal to the blond UNCLE agent.

She was disgusted with her line of thinking; no, not that she was thinking in those lines, I mean, that was perfectly natural, but knowing she really couldn't do the first, {"just the fact that I called those three in the corner 'the bad guys' means I already ruled that out. After all, doesn't that mean I already put those two UNCLE agents on 'the good guy' list? At least for right now?"} Thinking it over, absently, sipping her drink, keeping a casual eye on the two groups of men, {"just because they're up against those three that I know are bad guys, does that automatically make them good guys?"} And she just couldn't do the second thing on her most-wanted list either, since that would bring Luther and Wye into a mess, and she really wanted to avoid that. Besides, they'd both give her holy hell if she got into a brawl, especially now.

She decided to ponder that a bit, til she was honest enough with herself to know she was just delaying the inevitable. Yeah, she still wanted to take Kuryakin apart, wouldn't grieve any to read his obituary, but Luther had said he didn't blame the Russian for what happened. Wye did, she knew, and she was pretty sure Luther had lied to her in his explanation of that encounter. She was even pretty sure why he'd lied, and she couldn't really be too upset with him. She knew she probably freaked him out when she offered to undertake a blood vendetta on his behalf; he hadn't known her all that well yet, and had probably been a little worried about her, probably thought she should at least reach her teens before she did something as ambitious as that. She smiled to herself, {"dear sweet Luther, always looking out for me!"}

To her exasperation, her pussy-footing around came to an end when she realized those three already KNEW Solo and Kuryakin were UNCLE agents, and were waiting, just waiting to spring a trap. She found herself repeating herself as she quietly excused herself and made her way to the smoky hallway and into the dressing rooms beyond, {"SHIT! SHIT, SHIT, SHIT!"}

A fast stop by her own table on the way back, getting a shocked look from the two men sitting there, though they responded quickly enough to the smile and brief words, as she handed over a pack of something or other - hell, she didn't know! - and took a folded bill in exchange. They took their cigarettes and quickly separated, ready to do her bidding. She would meet them back at their room later, and just hoped they didn't do something silly like wait for her outside. They knew she could take care of herself, still, they did worry. Well, so did she, about them, so it all worked out alright.

She gave a tiny glare at that round table where the two UNCLE agents were sitting; she'd prefer to just leave, but she found she just couldn't quite do that. {"Damn!"} Well, at least it was a change from "SHIT!", she thought, and gave a little snort of disgust. She really hated to think what Luther and Wye were going to say when she told them they'd been seen, and most probably recognized, by the agent. She wondered again if it might not be better to just let this play out, and snarled at herself. {"Bad enough without starting to argue with myself! No matter which side wins, I still lose!"}

They were sharing a small round table in the corner, waiting for their contact. So far everything had gone well, they'd completed the first part of the assignment, and now just had to get the microdot from the elderly man who was to accidentally bump into their table in, Napoleon checked his watch, precisely fifteen minutes. A shadow hovered over the table, and when the two greeted the rather overdressed cigarette girl, and purchased a pack of Gauloises, "talk about a repressive regime; even the cigarette girls are covered up like nuns!". Kuryakin wrinkled his nose, "how do you stand those?" "I don't inhale," his partner joked.

A moment later the girl was back, "I am so sorry, I gave you the wrong change," and she laid a bill on the table, with a smile. Solo looked down; the faint edge of a piece of paper was showing under the same bill he'd given her. He gave a meaningful glance at Kuryakin who managed to spill part of his drink, giving Solo the chance to palm and read the message. He surreptitiously glanced at the far end of the bar. "Illya, those three, over there," signaling with his eyes, "look familiar?" Kuryakin swore to himself, "unfortunately, yes."

At that a small scuffle broke out in the corner by singer's platform, though they couldn't see what had caused it, and the two agents took the opportunity given by the confusion to slip away. "May I ask just what was going on back there?" Kuryakin asked as they got back to their hotel room. Solo handed over the brief message.

"And just who was so kind as to prevent us from walking into their trap?"

"I'm not sure, maybe we can find out more from the cigarette girl." Discovering that the small cafe didn't have a cigarette girl, at least not that night though the costume and supplies were back in the dressing room for when Hilda DID show up, didn't improve either of their moods.

It was only later that Solo mentioned, hesitantly, "I know I have to be imagining things, but I could have sworn I saw . . ." His partner scowled up at the chair from which Illya was activating his communicator, "thought you saw WHO, Napoleon?" Napoleon Solo sighed, really hating to have to say this, "Not WHO, Illya. Wye. Well, both Wye and Ecks to be precise." And the expression on his partner's face was exactly what he'd expected it to be.

Mr. Waverly was not pleased; that was obvious by his tone, along with the stern comment, "gentlemen, I am not pleased." He gave a grumpy puff on his ever present, though not always lit, pipe, "we needed the information on that microdot. It was urgent that we get it. And the contact said he handed it over to the person sitting at that table at the appointed time, a woman, he said. Now, just how did you manage to not be in the right place at the right time?" 

They knew their superior knew all of the details; they had made a verbal report, first by communicator, then one in person, then a written report. The two men had discussed and argued over whether to mention what Napoleon had thought he'd seen, or rather who, but they finally did, though pointing out that the room was both dark and smoke-filled, and the two men had left before Napoleon could get the opportunity of taking a closer look.

Mr. Waverly was not impressed by that either. "Yes, I saw that in your report. In fact, I have in front of me as well your report for The Odd Man Affair, gentlemen, in which you clearly stated that both Mr. Ecks and Mr. Wye were killed in that business. Now just which report am I to believe, Mr. Solo, Mr. Kuryakin? I should hate to think I cannot depend on your reports for accuracy, especially about something of such importance. We cannot just keep marking the records "Deceased" and "Active" back and forth like that; it is hardly professional!" Napoleon grimaced at Illya, {"yeah, this is going pretty much like we thought it would."} Illya just looked back impassively, him not being the one who thought he'd seen two deceased enemy agents. 

Lisa Rogers interrupted the meeting, something quite unlike her, but when needs must and all that. "Mr. Waverly, I have a message for Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin; it is supposedly quite important."

Waverly frowned and hrummphed, "yes, yes, very well," impatiently, waving her ahead. Napoleon took the message, his eyes blinking in surprise, "sir, she's right. May we continue this later? This is urgent."

"Yes, Mr. Solo, run along. And maybe by the time you speak again, you can make a bit more sense?"And on that rather dubious note, the two agents departed.

"And just where are we going, Napoleon?"

"Seems our cigarette girl has come out of the woodwork; says she has something that we might want."

Kuryakin frowned, "HERE? What is an Albanian cigarette girl doing in New York and how did she know where to find us?"

"We can ask her that, along with a few other questions. I asked Mark and April to back us up, in case it's another trap."

They paused in front of the polyptych of the dragon, just as the message had indicated. "Beautiful, isn't she? I've always loved that piece from the first time my mother brought me to see it. She always used it as a sterling example of the proper behavior and mindset to strive for." Her voice became severely disapproving, "the curator says they will be 'retiring' this piece at the end of the month, putting it into storage to make way for a new piece of 'modern art;. Terribly short-sighted, in my opinion! I rather doubt the new piece will be anywhere near so inspirational!"

Napoleon glanced over at the dulcet female voice, preparing to do his 'aren't I so charming' thing, though that comment about the paintings hadn't made any sense to him, only to meet icy gold-brown eyes that looked uncomfortably familiar. Oh, he wasn't sure where he'd seen them before, but he was sure he had; he seemed to remember he'd been unable to charm her then too. Illya wasn't sure either, but he rather remembered the cadence of her voice, her general form, though it now was slightly, suggestively rounded in a way it certainly hadn't been then.

"A long way from Albania, isn't it?" he asked in a chilly voice.

"True, it is, but, against my better judgement, I thought you should probably have this. I wouldn't have, you know, but that's rather nasty stuff they're planning, from the looks of it. Page forty-seven, line six; I'm sure you'll find what you're looking for," as she laid a museum brochure on the small bench beside her.

She started to rise and walk away, but a firm grip on her wrist stopped her. She not only didn't panic, she hardly acknowledged the action, other than glancing at the owner of those fingers. April Dancer blinked rapidly at the sight of those now somewhat amused eyes and quirked brow, at the face under the cunning little hat, and slowly released her hold and flashed a surreptitious signal to her partner.

"Now, now, gents, and my dear lady. Let's keep our fingers to ourselves, shall we?" a tallish man with a bristly salt and pepper moustache and a heavily receding hairline, dressed rather like a banker, or maybe an undertaker, cautioned. "And that's 'ardly friendly, seeing as 'ow she tipped you to that little trap your Thrush playmates 'ad set for you, AND delivered your goods all the way back 'ere." He was holding a hat in his hand, and no one doubted it was concealing a weapon. "You done 'ere, then, ducks?"

"Yes, quite done," she said.

He shot her a quick smile, "good, was worried you might 'ave other things on the agenda."

Kuryakin saw their attention waiver just a bit, and he started to glide forward, when he heard another voice, "Please don't, Mr. Kuryakin. She'd be annoyed with me if a stray shot hit that painting she likes so well. And you really should thank me, you know, for NOT letting you go ahead. You don't want to get in a tussle with my lady; nasty temper and all, and sides, she bites, she does. Think you were told that once before. You ready to go, love?" got a surprisingly warm chuckle, "aye, laddie, that I am."

She looked at Solo and Kuryakin. "Our meeting in Albania was truly happenstance, and I, for one, would be more than pleased if it was not repeated; I tend to bear grudges, and I find it most difficult and rather annoying to set such things aside for these little matters such as mass destruction, general mahem, and world peace and the like. I don't like you, either of you, but you in particular, Mr. Kuryakin. Please don't tempt me to give in to my, shall we say, more volatile nature."

All of a sudden the two remembered where they'd seen her before, seven years ago, sitting in a chair in Waverly's office, the not-quite-a-teenager yet, looking at them with those cold gold-brown eyes. She moved carefully away from April and toward the slender man at the entrance to the hall. April's mouth had a sudden twitch, not a smile, nothing so obvious, but still something. Mark Slate, watching from the corridor, could tell there was something going on with his partner, but he knew this wasn't the time. She'd given him the signal to stand down, and he trusted her judgement.

Wye stood where he was, making sure the young woman reached the side of the short blond man in the trim business suit, dark glasses held in one hand, his stone blue eyes alert for any rash movement on their part. He smiled fondly as she laid her head briefly against his partner's shoulder, as the two of them left the gallery, casual sightseers headed to their next point of call. The young woman turned as they exited the door, flicking a small object to the floor. By the time the agents lunged for it, then realized it was only a lemon drop, not an explosive device or gas bomb or anything like that, Wye was gone, vanished as if into thin air.

Napoleon Solo sighed heavily, "Mr. Waverly is NOT going to be pleased with us." Illya Kuryakin glared at him, "and this is a significant change from earlier?" April, for once, made no comment, but she knew her partner would be asking questions later. Well, she'd think of something to tell him, something other than it didn't seem polite to try and detain a relative. No, she wasn't sure just which one, but still, family, a younger version of a far-distant cousin April had spent a memorable summer with.

And, no, Mr. Waverly was not pleased. However, for some reason, after hmmphing and blustering around, he informed them that he had read their reports, "All of them, gentlemen. I am, of course, most pleased that you were able to recover the microdot. However, as for the rest of this, this nonsense, I believe it is best forgotten. In fact, that is an order. I can only conclude that you were under the influence of some concoction that created delusions. It is most clear that Mr. Ecks and Mr. Wye were killed during your completion of the Odd Man Affair, and this is merely the power of suggestion or something drug induced perhaps. I do not want to hear any more about this, I do not want their names mentioned again. Is that understood?"

His two top agents blinked at him, glanced at each other, and in unison said all they could say, "yes, Mr. Waverly!" 

Waverly sat at his big desk, looking at the files sitting in front of him, all the various reports. He hit the button on his intercom, "Miss Rogers, please bring me the tape of those communications from Victor Marton, oh, perhaps a little over seven years ago. The ones concerning that incident with Mr. Davenport and Mr. Collins. Yes, that's the one; I thought you might recall that. Yes, I find a need to view those again. Also, the file on those communicator modifications from that same period; I believe Mr. Kuryakin oversaw that project. And, Miss Rogers, the communication that came in at 7:04 this morning? That tape is to be scrubbed and destroyed, with no copy made or kept, no transcription either."

Lisa Rogers wondered what had brought all that on. She kept that particular Marton tape in the safe closest to her; Mr. Waverly requested it on occasion, usually when he was down, and it seemed to have a salutory effect on his mood. She smiled as she remembered the incident, though she was sure Davenport and Collins wouldn't have, had they still been with the organization. Davenport, unfortunately, had let his temper and ego get in the way and he hadn't survived a resultant fight with another agent; oh, his death hadn't been deliberate, certainly, but still, proding a fellow Section Two agent was always risky, especially one who'd just come back from a mission that had ended in disaster like that one had. And Collins, well, he'd decided he wasn't Section Two material, about a step before he was scheduled to be counseled precisely to that effect. He'd become a priest, of all things. The file on the communicator modifications, though, this was the first time he'd requested that. Having a tape destroyed, well that happened sometimes, though rarely, and she had to wonder, considering the connection between the two tapes and that file and the name of the person making that call earlier. {"Oh, well. Mine is not to reason why, and all that sort of thing."} 

He sat, sipping a glass of brandy, his pipe sitting in his rack beside him as he watched that tape run through again; this was his third viewing today, both of the original much-amused and gloating Victor Marton, and later, the tight-lipped, thoroughly annoyed Victor Marton. He permitted himself a brief chuckle. He made a note to have Miss Rogers make a new copy of that tape; it was starting to dim slightly, and he'd hate to lose it to age or wear and tear.

He turned to the files on his desk, starting with the one outlining the communicator modifications completed based on the specifications from that rather astonishing young man, modifications now standard within the organization; he shuddered anew at the thought of the disaster that would have ensued should Thrush or any other organization have discovered that fatal flaw before it could be remedied. He took another look at the file outlining the interaction with that small group of Innocents (though he snorted to himself now at that naive designation), the one that allowed UNCLE to reclaim that ever so vital piece of information and save the life of their undercover agent.

The current file, the one related the very close call in Albania, where he could easily have lost his best two agents to that Thrush trap, as well as the unexpected recovery of that ever-so-important micro-dot. Yes, Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin were probably not best pleased with him, insisting they'd been mistaken about encountering two clearly deceased individuals, but they'd get over it. It was clear to Waverly that those two were truly dead and gone, and in the afterlife. Well, at least AN afterlife, and he hoped sincerely that they found it a satisfactory enough place to stay there; something hinted in the report told him that just might be the case.

He thought of the report outlining that conversation at the art gallery, and found himself chuckling again, remembering the warning they'd been given about the younger girl all those years ago, seeing from the report that that warning still seemed to be in effect. Miss Dancer's actions, now, he'd purposefully ignored; he rather did not want to know of any connection, and would do his best to avoid having any such connection explained to him.

He spared a thought for those days during the war, when he and his team, including his beloved wife, met a rather unusual special forces team, and how neither he or his wife would have most likely walked away without the help of the leader of that group and his men, including a totally cheeky blond pickpocket. He had to admit he still didn't much care for the look Mrs. Waverly got when she was reminded of that young man, though he took some comfort in knowing that a certain redhaired woman wasn't any more pleased. Ah well, everyone had certain fond memories, he knew, and he knew that was all they were, memories; still, sometimes he did wonder at that gleam in her eyes. He'd certainly never seen the appeal.

As for the connection between that group, those men and those children and now Ecks and Wye, welll, he supposed he'd never know how all the parts to this fit together, and that was regrettable; he thought it might just be rather amusing and certainly most interesting. However, he could live with that. He was well content with his bargain; in fact, he thought he'd rather come out ahead.

The four UNCLE agents were standing in front of that polyptych again, Napoleon Solo insisting they stop at the museum on the way to lunch. "I'll admit there's a lot I don't understand, and I know a lot of that we're supposed to just forget, but one thing I really don't understand. What she said about this picture, what was it? 'Her mother used it as a sterling example of the proper mindset, on how to behave?' What did that mean?" He looked intently at the four-part painting - the dragon in a dimly lit room, coiled around a heap of barely seen treasure; then the room in bright sunlight, the treasure revealed as flawed, but the dragon still admiring it as if it had been a king's ransom, the long-dead bodies of those who'd come to try and rob her scattered in the corners. And through one of the windows, another set of men, coming to steal her treasure; the third picture showed her fiercely defending her hoard, and the fourth, her once again coiled around her flawed and rather shop-worn treasure, nosing it over gently, making sure it was all safe. A pile of new bodies showed through the open doorway, telling of the fate of the interlopers.

April stood staring at the picture, a knowing smile on her face, "why, I would think it is obvious, Darling. She was telling her that, if you value something, it doesn't matter how others see it. If it is something YOU value, you guard it, protect it, and always and forever, treasure it. And also that, sometimes, in order to do all of that, you have to be willing to bite, er, I mean, fight," and the three men looked at her in sharp skepticism.

Her own partner took another look at the four paintings, and turned to her, "and that is what YOU see when you look at that?"

She smiled at him, "but of course, Darling. What else could I see?" She shook her head at his muttered reply, "I don't know, a bloody great monster doing a lot of damage to all those men while protecting a pile of rubbish?"

"Mark, you're not looking at it from HER viewpoint. See those men? Yes, they might have what they consider good reasons for what they are intending, everything from thinking it was the right thing to do, perhaps thinking their actions heroic, to perhaps it just being a job they hired on to do. Yes, if they saw all that in the sunlight, they might view it as rubbish, they might not, they might see some part they wanted to take for their own or just destroy as not being worth the keeping. The thing is, that doesn't matter, none of it. What matters to her is how SHE sees it; it is HER TREASURE, a treasure well worth caring for and protecting; their opinion is irrelevant."

She shook her head and chuckled, "I remember a friend, Caeide, telling me about this polyptych, how HER mother had brought all of her daughters to see it, to hear the story. How inspiring each of them had found it, as had their mother and her mother before. She'd laughed and said that if it ever went on the auction block, she or one of the family would snap it up in a heartbeat. I remember Peter teasing her that she shouldn't say that too loudly; that if it ever went missing, they'd know where to look. And the totally wicked grin she gave him, "and good luck to them in finding it, love! We're quite adept in looking after treasures; she taught us well."

April remembered what M'Coury had said, about the paintings being relegated to storage; she wondered just how long they'd languish there, and what the museum board would think when they decided to retrieve it somewhere down along the line, and found only an empty space.

She would also think back on that picture, that conversation later, when the subject of treasure was once again on the agenda in a small cabin in a snow-packed landscape, and again, farther in the future, when the meaning would sink bone deep within her own body and mind and spirit, and she would rejoice that she truly understood. Eventually, she would take her own daughter to see the dragon and her treasure, though now in a different protected location, and explain that same lesson, for it was an ageless one, and ever true. In the meantime, though, she was the subject of three sets of masculine eyes, all looking at her as if she'd, as Mark put it later, "lost 'er bloody mind!" She laughed and took Mark's arm, "alright, darlings, who's buying lunch?"

"Well, do you think it was worth it, all the risk?"

"Aye, I'd say so. I think we have a better than average chance of the old man dead-filing this whole thing, if you'll excuse the phrase," laughing just a little.

"Well, I 'ope so; I was just getting used to not 'aving to look over our shoulders all the time," Wye said with a weary shake of his head.

"Well, Dad thinks he was successful. After all, between that message we were able to get back for them, and the tech work Randy helped them with, and the microdot, not to mention keeping Solo and Kuryakin's asses out of that trap, we as a family have not done too badly by them. And from what I understand, both Dad and Da had a hand in keeping Waverly and his wife-to-be alive during the war when things went all pear-shaped for them. Hopefully, all of that is enough to get him to overlook the little fact of your continued existence, my dears, as long as we don't rub their noses in it too thoroughly."

Wye sighed, "Maybe we can get back to the business at 'and pretty soon. I did like that idea your Dad came up with, w'at with them billing themselves as Consultants. Says they get pretty much all the business they want. Not like you can take out an ad in the papers, "Experienced Spies for 'Ire, Good Rates, Reputations Slightly Dodgy, References Not Available". But 'Consultants', now, that 'as a right nice ring to it, and we DO 'ave a few references from those odd jobs we took on, and your Dad says 'e can probably do some more referring over to us. Not something that'll tend to bring the wrong attention to us, but just the kind of thing where our experience will prove right 'andy. Says there's this bloke wants someone to look into the competition trying to steal 'is new stuff."

Meghada looked thoughtful, "that sounds promising, as long as his 'new stuff' isn't the kind of thing those Thrushies and all those types might be after as well."

"Oh, no, says these are patterns, dress designs, wallpaper designs, 'armless stuff like that. Worth money, sure, and they get all worked up about it, but not something likely to get killed over."

Luther had been listening, but frankly thought this was all stuff that could better be discussed later. He decided to bring the conversation back to the important things in life. "Well, if that's all settled, M'Coury, any thoughts of whats for dinner?"

They both groaned at him, "Luther, we had lunch not four hours ago!"

"Yes, but it was a light lunch, just onion soup and those toasted hot ham and cheese sandwiches and that leftover fried chicken, and some potato salad and cabbage slaw, with just what was left of the pear tart with a bit of heavy cream on top. Not like it was a full meal! And besides, aren't you supposed to be eating for two now? We gotta pay attention to things like that now, don't we?" he asked, those blue eyes wide with almost-believable innocence.

"Yes, I'm eating for two, you are obviously still eating for three, as usual! With Wye, that means I'm cooking for six, never mind what the grocery budget looks like . . ." and her voice trailed off as she headed off to see what could be done about filling their bottomless pit. The two men followed in her wake, one eager to help, the other eager to sample as things went along, both of her lips and of the food, all three well contented with life as never before.

And, just for the record, turns out she was eating for three as well. Wye looked down into those two cradles, dark red hair on the baby girl's tiny head, flaxen-blond on the boy's, took note of that wide sly smile on the latter and grumbled, "think 'e'll 'ave 'is dad's appetite? We'll 'ave to re-do the grocery budget again!" but with a grin every bit as big as Luther's.

"I wouldn't be surprised one bit, Wye. I now know what Mum meant about me taking after Da; grip on that boy that gets your attention right off! Course, could be just that he gets that from both sides of the family," teasing the slender man sitting cross-legged on the bed beside her.

He just looked up at her through those long eyelashes, "we just know what takes our fancy; it's a gift!" and ducked easily to avoid the light slap she aimed toward him, laughing all the while.

**Author's Note:**

> Mr. Ecks just refused to die on command, stubborn man that he is, and the opportunity to have the delightful Christopher Cary (who portrayed both Mr. Ecks and the wonderful Goniff from Garrison's Gorillas) star in a dual role was just too tempting. Be patient, Chapter One really takes place after the first part of Chapter Two, but Chapter Two covers several years and they insisted on having it written this way. Pushy, the whole lot of them, in my opinion!


End file.
